


how to save a life

by wolfgenes (ruperts)



Series: How To Save A Life [1]
Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-03-24
Packaged: 2018-03-15 14:00:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 112,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3449744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruperts/pseuds/wolfgenes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>ashton is struggling with life while mourning the life he could have had. he ends up agreeing to go to a party with his friends, when all hell breaks loose and a kid gets shot. before the trauma even properly sets in, ashton's already visiting comatose luke hemmings, becoming addicted to baring his soul to the one person who can't tell him he's wrong. then luke wakes up, and it turns out he is wrong: it's not very smart to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. and, for both of them, the healing starts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i can't believe i'm finally posting this, wow. right: so i spent the past few months writing this fic, which is now complete at 13 chapters and 112 thousand words. it's inspired by some real life events, and this fic is very special to me. i have as much love for this fic as humanly possible, and i can only hope you enjoy reading it half as much as i enjoyed writing it.
> 
> so many people were vital for the writing of this fic. i remember having the idea of writing and mentioning it to nora, asking her what her thoughts were on it. then she started reading it, early on, along with niamh (from the start 'til the end, wow) and alicia. i'm so very grateful for the three of you. actually, the fic probably wouldn't have survived its first 10k if it wasn't for you. i can't even explain the happiness i felt every time there was a new fanmail or submit with reactions on tumblr commenting on the newest update i'd send through email. then with time i started showing the fic to jue, too, and whoa, i can't even properly put into words how much her support has helped me, especially so towards the end. also honorable mention to my tumblr followers who not only put up with my talking non-stop about the fic, but also encouraged me lots, and read bits every now and then. just: big love to all of you. ps: special shout-out to hattie for beta-ing and being the loveliest lovely person i know.
> 
> relevant comment: i'll update the fic with a new chapter every two days, so you guys have time to read them.
> 
> last but not least, well! i hope you have fun. ♥

It’s a party outside, near a famous arena, not close enough to the city. It’s no good, Ashton knows, but he’s been persuaded by his friends to go out more, show his face, stop mourning failed relationships and broken self-esteem. (But it’s important, vital, even, that it’s clear that when he thinks back of this, he won’t blame them, won’t point any fingers, won’t even fully acknowledge anyone could be blamed at all, not even the clear figures to be blamed.)

 

The night is hot, his sleeveless black top keeps getting glued to his chest because of the sweat. By three, he’s already danced enough, taken a magic pill, hugged strangers and kissed the mouths of most of his friends, girls and boys. And this is probably what will bother him the most in a few hours, just how impossibly happy he is in the seconds before, how he’s complaining about the dampness of his shirt, but smiling all the same, one arm wrapped around Michael, the other gesturing wildly to try and explain to Calum how this works, whatever _this_ stands for at the moment.

 

Thin rain starts falling, but it’s not enough to make them move.

 

He hears the argument unfold, or sort of does anyway. It’s about football, he registers that much, hears the drunken loudness of them, ignores them because he can, because he’s among friends and Michael is telling the lamest joke he’s ever heard, Calum saying that he smells but it’s in good heart, Ashley getting lost in a boy too tall for her, standing on tiptoes even on her high heels to wrap her hands around the boy’s neck.

 

Then it’s just, it’s urgent, it’s everything, it’s too fast but at the same time too slow. Michael holds his face, looks into his eyes with widened green, and says, “Don’t fucking look away from me.” And Ashton doesn’t, through it all, he doesn’t.

 

It’s the tone in his voice, how he sounds like he’s never been as serious about anything in his life as he is about this. He holds his breath, stares at Michael.

 

Ashton hears the gunshot just behind him, hears the gasp, these two sounds are almost at the same time, but also separated in his head. For him, it’s milliseconds that could expand forever until they are two different days. First the gunshot, loud enough that his ears hurt but not loud enough that he’s deemed temporarily deafened. Then comes the gasp, that little noise that doesn’t sound loud enough to be remarkable, but at the same time—it’s there, it means something.

 

That gasp is the boy being shot.

 

The rest, no, the rest isn’t like those two sounds. The rest is far too much and too fast. The body falling to the ground doesn’t even reach his ears—what he hears instead is the loud screaming, people yelling and getting lost from their loved ones, desperation running deep in their veins as everyone loses it. He doesn’t lose Michael, though, Michael pulls him against his body like Michael has made a shield of himself just for Ashton’s sake.

 

The crowd turns into a moving wave. He loses Calum and Ashley fast.

 

Ashton’s unblinking eyes hadn’t moved from Michael. But as Michael practically drags him out, pushing like everyone is pushing, Ashton can’t help it: his head turning to look over his shoulder, his eyes falling to the boy on the ground. Still alive, eyes shut, hands pressed against his chest, but blood coming from his head, mud damping his green shirt. The mud, actually, well: the mud is welcoming the shot boy on the ground like to the ground he’ll come back to, but he’s still alive, and nobody will do anything.

 

Ashton doesn’t catch a look of the person who fired the shot. He doesn’t think it’d make any difference, anyway.

 

His voice is not there. He tries screaming too, tries mimicking the crowd to let some of it go, but nothing works, his tongue is useless, his vocal cords are muted, no air reaches his lungs. He tries moving, struggles to try and get to the boy, but the wave pushing them all out is too strong, and Michael has a tight grip around him, pulling Ashton towards him, towards the exit, towards  _out_.

 

His mind doesn’t work like it should. It’s not the drug, he knows, it’s been too long and it wasn’t his first time. It’s his stupid brain. It slows down, the shot playing on a loop in his head, and even though Michael didn’t let him see it, he imagines seeing it, imagines the bullet coming out of the gun and straight into the boy’s head, perforating skin and brain like they’re thin paper.

 

The boy’s face is tattooed behind his eyelids, and he can’t stop closing his eyes.

 

“Fuck,” Michael cries out loud, tries pushing people out of his way, but everyone wants to leave at the same time, and it’s so hard. Ashton swallows dryly, looks at Michael, tries saying something again but his mind and mouth aren’t coordinated. Michael gives him a look, shakes his head, says, “Stop, Ashton, what the fuck are you doing?”

 

Then Ashton realizes he’s still trying to get away from Michael, fight the crowd, go back to where the boy is, check his pulse, or at least have him be around someone when he gives up. But the realization calms him down, makes him stop struggling against Michael, nodding slowly, trying to get on the same page.

 

“Where… Calum and Ashley…?”

 

Michael gestures ahead, is ready to explain what he’ll later say to Ashton, that he wouldn’t have taken off as fast if he wasn’t sure, that he saw Calum take Ashley’s hand, that the two were out of there faster than Michael could move. Ashton would be confused when Michael admits that he paralyzed, because in his head, Michael acted so fast.

 

The rain gets thicker, and they keep pushing through. Ashton hears people screaming like they never stopped, vaguely registers people getting robbed in the chaos, people being dragged to the woods behind the arena close-by, worse things than being robbed about to happen to them. It makes him sick, he thinks he’ll throw up, claustrophobic and being pushed, people crying all around him, but Michael pushes his way through the crowd, gets to outside before he can think of letting his body react.

 

As they run for the parking lot, every single step of Ashton’s heavy feet raises mud up to his knees. It makes running something too tiring, makes him exhausted before the first second, but he’s too shocked to even be scared—his legs don’t give in.

 

They find Calum and Ashley. They’re outside the car, waiting. Ashley launches at Ashton’s arms, big round eyes staring at him, and he doesn’t know what he looks like, but she doesn’t look good. Calum, with his arms around Michael and then Ashton, doesn’t look so good, either. Ashton keeps meaning to say something, but he’s got a lump in his throat and they’re rushing them to get inside the car.

 

It feels as if there’s no time to react. He wouldn’t know whether that’s good or bad.

 

They’re out of there fast, pass police cars on their way out, but not even when they reach the highway does anyone say a word.

 

Ashton throws his head back, stares at the ceiling of the car, feels his body shaking but can’t stop himself. Michael says something he doesn’t hear properly, but when he turns to the side, all he can see is the rain, a thick curtain of fog and water, and all he can think of is the boy.

 

He wonders about whether the police got there before the pouring rain at its worse, wonders what got to cover the boy first, mud or blood. Wonders if any of his friends were around, or if he was out of his little crowd to get a beer. Wonders if the boy had a girlfriend or boyfriend or anyone he cared about more than anything in the world. Wonders if anyone would have taken that shot for him instead. Wonders if there really wasn’t anyone around who could have stopped it. Wonders if he could have, had he seen it in time, if he’d turned his head around when Michael told him not to.

 

Probably not. Probably he’d just have scarred himself further, watching the boy go down. But still he wonders.

 

Michael sighs, puts a hand on Ashton’s shoulder, squeezes until Ashton’s looking at him. He only notices how wet he is, how the rain got to him and how hard he’s been crying when he looks at how damp Michael is.

 

“He was just a boy,” Ashton says, voice weak.

 

Ashley, driving, pretends to not have heard. Calum, to her side, fidgets with his shirt and keeps his mouth shut. 

 

Michael looks him in the eye, like that fixes anything, like that un-kills the boy. Ashton wishes he could find a way to un-kill everything that’s been killed unfairly. Someone drawing a gun in a stupid drunken argument hardly feels like a fair way to go.

 

“It was about—”

 

“Football. I heard,” Michael adds, expression weird, like he’s not entirely sure how his voice should sound right now but it’s wrong either way. And Ashton nods, because that’s it, there really isn’t anything other to say, and even if there was, it wouldn’t change anything.

 

Ashton cries on Michael’ shoulder, tunes out to the rest of the car.

 

In his head, he stayed. In his head, he kneeled down in the mud next to him, held his head while he agonized, whispered that it’d all be fine, and no one touched him or walked over him on their way out. In his head, there was a dignified end, not one that would haunt the others.

 

It’s selfish, he thinks, to think of how the boy will affect him and others. But he’s selfish, so what.

 

#

 

Usually when he comes home after parties, he throws his arms around whoever is giving him a ride this time—usually Ashley, the perpetually sober one—sends drunken kisses everyone’s ways, and he’s loudly out of the car and trying his best not to wake his siblings on the way upstairs to his room. Tonight, though, by the time Ashley stops the car in front of the Irwin house, Michael and Ashley sigh, and it’s only after a second that it clicks that it’s because Ashton doesn’t move.

 

They dropped Calum first, always do, Ashton remembers saying goodbye but only faintly, remembers more the smell of mud and the woods around the party, what it felt like, watching people push people, lives meaning less and less as they walked over fallen ones, never caring about it, desperate for their way out. It makes him shudder, but he sighs too, if anything to join his friends. Ashley frowns at him through the windshield mirror, makes a face like she might ask something but is afraid of the answer.

 

“I can’t,” he tells no one specific, about nothing particular.

 

Michael nods, though, like he just understands, and maybe he does.

 

“Do you want me to sleep over?” he asks Ashton, raised eyebrows and puffy red eyes, “So you aren’t alone?” he blinks, looks at Ashley, corrects himself. “So we aren’t. None of us should be. Ashley, c’mon.”

 

Ashley shakes her head, though, unnaturally quiet. “Can’t. Promised to be up tomorrow morning to help my brother with trigonometry,” but it’s a lie, must be, or at least an excuse, but Ashton gets that, too, wanting to be alone.

 

And he doesn’t. It’d kill him to.

 

“Stay,” he asks Michael, and he’s surprised by the sound of his voice, how cracked and broken one word can make him to be. But Michael just nods and Ashley just nods, and it feels like something common for once, Michael and Ashley siding against the world like Ashton wishes they would with him sometimes.

 

Once out of the car, it feels like walking is tremendous effort. Ashton knows his mother is working her shift at the hospital, wonders if she’ll get the boy or if he’ll go straight to the morgue, but he wishes she was home. If she was, he’d go straight to her room, not need Michael or anyone else, just sob in her bed and tell her what happened, and he’s not sure what she would say, but he knows it’d make him feel less like he’d lost someone dear.

 

He doesn’t even know the boy’s name. Never knew, and now.

 

It’s Michael who opens the front door, waves goodbye to Ashley, who was still waiting for them to go in to leave. It’s Michael who puts an arm around his waist as if he’s too shit-faced to walk, but it’s not that, he just can’t remember to.

 

Usually the turned off lights of the living room wouldn’t scare him, and walking up the stairs, even at his drunkest, wouldn’t take so long. But it’s not an usual night, nothing about this is, so when he hears Michael plead, “Please, Ashton,” and hears the tone of his voice, how Michael is crying, tears rolling down his cheeks easily, Ashton sort of falls apart again. Like before, struggling against Michael trying to keep him safe, wanting to move against the wave of people wanting out, he looks at his own hands, realizes what they’re doing, tight grip on the handrail, refusing to move, and it’s the weirdest thing, when not even his body will answer to him.

 

He doesn’t know for how long they both stay in the staircase, sitting side-by-side and not saying another word, crying silently, weeping, something like that. At some point Ashton feels too tired, vaguely concerned he’ll wake up Lauren or Harry, but then the thought strikes him, that it could have been his little sister or little brother, and he breaks down harder.

 

When Michael’s either done with the crying or too exhausted, he pulls himself up again, offers a hand for Ashton to get back on his feet as well, but as they walk to Ashton’s room, trying not to make a sound, all Ashton can bring himself to say is: “You don’t understand. You don’t have any siblings.”

 

Looking back on it, he wouldn’t understand why he said it. Maybe to try and prove Michael that it was worst for him, even if it was Michael who had seen the boy get shot, who watched him a second before, knew what was going to happen, stopped it from being burned into Ashton forever. Maybe it’s silly childish competition of who’s got it worse. Michael never cares about it, though, pulls the extra mattress from under Ashton’s bed, gets something to cover himself with from the closet, all while Ashton sits on his bed wide-eyed and tired.

 

“Let’s get some sleep,” Michael tries, a hand on his shoulder that’s supposed to be reassuring, or something. Ashton looks up at him, sort of wants to ask if he shouldn’t take a shower before hitting the sack, but he’s too tired and Michael won’t care. “Tomorrow… yeah.”

 

Ashton cocks an eyebrow, clears his throat. “Tomorrow what? It will make sense? Because it won’t, Mike, it never will. A kid is dead.”

 

Saying it, he feels like he’s just cursed the entire world. He wishes he could take it back, feels his eyes filling up for the thousandth time, instead just presses his lips together and shuts his eyes, lowering his head and feeling like a crushing weight is on his chest. Michael sighs, hand on his shoulder squeezing harder.

 

“Look, we don’t know that. Maybe he made it.”

 

But he just sounds like Ashton sounded like two years ago, when their dog ran away and Harry was crying, talking about cars killing their pet. What he sounds like is like he knows there’s no chance in hell the boy is still alive, but he’ll lie for Ashton’s sake, because he cares, because he can’t take any more tears, because he’s too tired and just needs to close his eyes and let his body rest.

 

So Ashton nods, not because he believes him, but because he also cares, also can’t take any more tears, is also too tired and just needs to close his eyes and let his body rest.

 

Michael lies on the mattress on the floor, Ashton lies on his bed, and at some point they both just stare at the ceiling, and Ashton wonders if Michael feels this empty, this strange, with such sense of loss that he couldn’t put into words.

 

“I’m scared,” he says, voice small and weak.

 

“Of what?”

 

He smiles quietly. He doesn’t know. “Of the monsters in the dark.”

 

Michael chuckles, moves to his side on the mattress, sighing softly. “I’ll fight them for you.”

 

It’s enough to get Ashton to close his eyes and fall asleep.

 

#

 

Ashton remembers when Calum’s Mum was sick. It was over ten years ago, they were all around eight or nine, and fuck it if Ashton was going to remember what was it that Calum’s Mum had, but he remembers they all slept at Ashton’s.

 

Calum was at Michael’s, but Ashton had to watch Lauren. Harry wasn’t in the picture yet, and his father both was and wasn’t. When Anne, his mother, called, he was talking four year old Lauren into eating her dinner. He doesn’t remember the exact words his mother said, but he remembers the tone in her voice, saying Calum’s mother was in the hospital, and her husband was driving Calum and Michael to Ashton’s. What he remembers is that his mother worked a double shift that night, and they were under no adult supervision per se, so Ashton thought he’d have to be the adult. Michael and Calum were a bit younger than him and they weren’t _friends_ , more like neighbors, and since their families got along, then well.

 

Michael suggested they watched Dragon Ball Z. Calum called him a nerd teasingly, but at least he’d stopped looking like he was about to cry, so Ashton engaged, said it was his favorite cartoon, and even brought Lauren to watch with them. He doesn’t remember ever feeling so responsible in his life, taking care of three younger than him, checking all the time to see if they were hungry or sleepy or cold.

 

Calum slept first, said he was tired and Ashton kept wondering if it was from all the crying. Michael helped Ashton distract Lauren back in her room until she fell asleep. When it was just the two of them, in Ashton’s bedroom staring at the ceiling and talking quietly, Ashton remembers thinking, well, Michael is just a young kid, but maybe he’s a good one—because Michael said, right before falling asleep, “Thanks for taking care of us.”

 

#

 

His first thought when he wakes up, is that it doesn’t feel like Sunday, because he wakes up too early and isn’t hangover. The sounds are different, too. On Sundays, by the time he wakes up, Lauren is already gone to her best friend’s house because of the pool and free fancy lunch, and Harry’s downstairs fixing himself lunch, if Anne is still at the hospital.

 

Today when he wakes up, he hears Dragon Ball Z. The thought nearly makes him fall back asleep. Still he forces his eyes open, frowns at the clarity of his room, curtains pulled back and sun invasive.

 

After a quick trip to the bathroom, he sneaks a peak down the stairs, the too loud television entertaining Harry. He’s still wearing last night’s clothes and it makes him feel dirty and wrong, the legs of his jeans still muddy and probably smelling, but still he walks down until his brother sees him. Harry gives him a nod of acknowledgement, and turns his attentions back to Goku.

 

“Hey, Haz,” he tries, blinking a couple of times. “Seen Michael?”

 

Harry doesn’t look away from the television to answer. He points towards the kitchen, and Ashton’s already on his way there when he hears Harry add, “Why _didn’t_ you show me this before? It’s rad.”

 

Ashton looks at his brother, sitting there, watching a VHS recorded when Ashton was not much older than Harry, finding out he was actually as into Dragon Ball as all the other boys around his age. It makes him feel like losing his balance, the contrast of who he was once, sitting innocently on the couch in pajamas, and who he becomes, the person staring at the scene with a frown. The person who yesterday was in the middle of chaos, a boy being shot just behind him, a boy who could have been his brother.

 

He feels the sour taste in his mouth.

 

He’s not hangover, not really, but still he runs to the ground bathroom, drops to his knees in front of the toilet, feels his eyes water before he throws up. The hairs of his arms are raised, and his hands are shaking. He wants to get up, move, go somewhere, _anywhere_. But he’s paralyzed.

 

He doesn’t know how long he stays there, sitting on his legs in front of the toilet, but at some point he hears Michael’s voice asking, “Ash, you okay?” and his hand on Ashton’s shoulder. When he looks, Harry’s standing behind Michael, wide-eyed and with his lips parted.

 

It’s like it’ll never end, the weight on his shoulders, even when people try to lift the world from them and give him feathers instead. He’s constantly worrying about what this looks like to Harry, what it would to Lauren if she was home, which he’s betting she isn’t, and is grateful for it, because she wouldn’t fall for how Ashton rolls his eyes with a tight smile, says, “Your big brother ended up drinking a bit too much yesterday. Serves ‘im right, don’t you think?”

 

Harry shifts his weight to the other foot, smiles a little unsure.

 

But Dragon Ball Z is more attractive than the smell, so he turns on his heels and goes back to the living room couch. Michael waits by the bathroom door for Ashton to breathe in, steady his nervous heart, eventually wash his face. Behind him in the reflection, he can see Michael, with tired puffy eyes, sleep-deprived like him, broken like him, and it’s the only thing that makes sense.

 

“I made pancakes,” he says, hesitantly, “so like, go upstairs again, brush your teeth, maybe take a shower, and I’ll be waiting, okay?”

 

Ashton says nothing at first, just dries his face poorly with the towel, turning to Michael. He wants to say so much. He wants to ask whether Michael had any nightmares at night. He wants to ask if he paid attention to the boy’s face, because he didn’t, and it scares him, because he swore it was burned into his soul, but no, not really, he’s already forgotten. He wants to tell Michael that he smells blood everywhere, and it’s definitely his imagination, because he never got that close, but his imagination is a powerful thing. He wants to tell Michael he doesn’t know how to tell Anne and he isn’t sure how to treat Calum or Ashley after this, because they didn’t see how bad Ashton was shaking after, and they might not understand anyway.

 

Instead he parts his lips, says, “Yeah, fine.”

 

Michael looks like he’s caught midsentence, like he means to say something else, but he ends up half-smiling and letting Ashton go. So he goes.

 

#

 

When Anne comes home, Michael leaves.

 

She knows. She says nothing, but she knows.

 

Ashton stays in his room, tells her he’s not feeling like having dinner when Lauren comes to call him, and when much later, Anne knocks on his door and lets him know she’s saved him a plate, he just thanks her and keeps air-drumming with the earphones tucked into his ears, staring at the ceiling and memorizing stains.

 

But Anne goes to bed without asking about the party, which is how Ashton knows the kid, dead or alive, passed by Anne’s hospital.

 

#

 

On Monday, he feels grateful when he wakes up and sees it’s almost midday; that he managed to sleep through all nightmares. It doesn’t even hit him at first why he’d have nightmares in the first place.

 

He’s supposed to help in the mornings, fix some breakfast to his siblings, but…

 

His shift at the video rental shop always starts early in the afternoon, which gives him time to have proper lunch at home. Both Harry and Lauren are at school, but Anne is making pasta when he goes to the kitchen, and when small talk turns into long looks, Ashton just suggests he washes the dishes while she finishes the sauce, and for a second quietness falls over them like a veil. Ashton keeps going back and forth on whether he wants to ask and wants to know, but if she had been home then, he’d have told her anyway.

 

Then again, now he’s had time to think about all the weirdest scenarios, Lauren being taken away to the woods, Harry getting broken ribs by being walked over and spending a month in the hospital. All these scenes coming to him, impossible and unimaginable, and yet it’s all he thinks about.

 

“Are you staying at Ashley’s after your shift?” she asks.

 

Ashton dries his hands in the washcloth, turns to her with a frown. “No, of course not. Harry has football practice later, doesn’t he? I said I’d pick him up.”

 

Anne sighs heavily, brings the food to the table and gestures for him to sit. He does, she serves him and later herself, and for a moment it feels like they’ll change the subject. Then she looks him in the eye, and he feels like he’s fourteen and was caught lying about a test in which he did poorly.

 

“You should stay with your friends. Lauren can get him, the school is within walking distance. I just don’t want you to—” she pauses, presses her lips together. “Ashton, baby.”

 

He looks down, stares at his plate, because he wouldn’t start the conversation, but now that she has, sort of anyway, it feels like it’s his obligation to talk about it. And yet, he can’t stop staring at his pasta, fork playing with the food even if his stomach is loud on proving just how hungry he is.

 

When finally he gathers the courage to look up at Anne, she’s giving him a pleading look, heavy eyes on him expecting some type of reaction or breakdown, some excuse to bring him close and kiss his forehead, say it’ll be alright, or something. Ashton doesn’t know himself what is it that he expects her to do if he says what’s on his mind. He doesn’t remember a single dream from tonight, but he knows they were all about Saturday and the party.

 

“Did he die?”

 

The words shock her more than him.

 

Anne parts her lips and blinks a couple of times, looking startled enough that he goes back on his words in his head, trying to find the mistake. But it sounds about right, asking if the boy died instead of lived, because last time he saw the boy, he was lying on the mud with a bullet in his head. And of course he died, obviously, the paramedics couldn’t have gotten there in time, and anyway, even if they did, what a long drive it must have been to the hospital. And _anyway_ , it doesn’t matter. None of it does. Because it doesn’t change the night, and it doesn’t change the emptiness inside him, and how he looks at his siblings like he might lose them.

 

It takes her a second, but Anne snaps out of it, breathing out softly as she says, “He was still in surgery when I left the ward. I was paged to help Dr Whitehall with another patient. I had a busy day on Sunday, barely had any time in ICU with the incoming patients, courtesy of drunk driving, so.”

 

Ashton looks at her, and it’s just: he wants to ask her what she thinks about it, about how quiet he’s gotten, about how tightly he hugged Lauren when she teased him about not having eaten shrimp at her friend’s place. He wants to ask Anne if she’s noticed that yesterday he barely ate, and that the person looking back at himself in the mirror looked like a zombie version of himself. Ashton wants to ask her how she does it, how she nurses sick people and loses them all the time. How come she can quietly mention a kid probably around his age, being on surgery for so many hours, then other kids probably around his age too, drinking too much and driving and crashing and dying.

 

He loves her more than he’s ever loved anything, admires Anne more than he’s thought his heart ever could take to admire someone, but all he feels towards her now is bitterness, because she could have checked and didn’t. Because she doesn’t know if the boy ever made it out of surgery.

 

But at least he got to the hospital alive, and Ashton wouldn’t know how to explain how that fills his heart with hope, but it does.

 

It’s still not enough to cancel out the bitterness, though, so he’s quiet for the rest of the meal, and if Anne misunderstands that for sadness, he lets her, sighing as she stands up, hand getting momentarily lost in his hair, voice cracking a bit when she offers him a ride to work, says her shift doesn’t start for another three hours.

 

It’s childishness taking over again, but he’ll let that, too, do whatever it’s there to do. If it’s there to shield him against his own feelings, protect him from coming clean to the person he loves the most, then okay. He’ll keep quiet and make a face, cross his arms and slam the door to Anne’s car, even if he immediately regrets it, feels his heart breaking a little with the look she gives him before starting the car again.

 

“Check this out,” is the first thing Ashley says when he closes the door behind him, the little bell still ringing to signal his entrance. Ashton looks her way, watches her balance a marshmallow on top of her nose, then tilt her head to the side a bit, and catch it with her mouth. As she chews, she looks at him with a smirk, adding, “Pretty cool, right?”

 

Ashton stands by the door with his hands by his sides, feeling awkward and unmoving, backpack hanging from his right shoulder. “It’s a dog trick.”

 

She shakes her head, bends over the counter with a lazy laugh. “Hey, you’re supposed to act impressed, Irwin.”

 

Reluctantly, he walks to the employees only door, leaves his backpack by his locker, sighs watching his hands hold the metal of the tiny door and wonders how come they’ve stopped shaking, who allowed them to get better, when inside he feels like so little’s changed.

 

He knows Ashley follows him, but refuses to acknowledge it until she closes the door of the locker on him, staring with a dumbfounded expression. “What’s gotten into you? You look like trash. Is Anne okay?”

 

“What’s gotten— ”Ashton raises his eyebrows, blinking a couple of times. He shakes his head, presses his lips so hard it hurts him, looks at her, bewildered. “What are you talking about? Are you insane? A boy was shot in the head, Ashley. Kind of hard to miss, unless you don’t have a fucking heart.”

 

Maybe it’s how loud his voice gets, the aggressive tone and his palm against the closed locker, but the look in her eyes, it’s something that pierces right through him. Almost immediately so, he finds himself wishing he could have worded it differently, or. Or something.

 

Ashley and Ashton have been friends for as long as he remembers. His earliest memories, his father still around and pretending to give a damn, taking him to the park, him on a swing next to Ashley, she pushing him out of the way when they ran for the pool at her aunt’s house a couple of years later, she pretending to be his girlfriend so their classmates got jealous and started liking her too. At prom last year, they went together. Not because they couldn’t find anyone who’d be willing to go with them, but because Ashley wanted to defy the logics and go with her best friend, and Ashton just rolled with it, told her in the limo on the way back to their houses, when both were high on the best weed around, that he was bisexual and scared out of his mind of what she’d think of him after that. She’d laughed and slapped him on the arm, said he’d better not hit on her single dad, and that was about it.

 

His father left when he was twelve. Lauren was six and Harry was two, so he couldn’t just leave, not with Anne juggling working extra shifts at the hospital and crying herself to sleep. He had wished he could have, then, so Ashley slept on his house for two weeks straight, only going to her place to get new changes of clothes. When Lauren and Harry were sleeping, they pretended to be in different places, all so Ashton could pretend he’d gotten away from it all. His bedroom would be Rome and Tokyo, the kitchen Dubai and São Paulo, the front yard New York on most days, Lima on weekends.

 

Ashton knows with all his heart how much Ashley loves him and he also knows that she knows he loves her back. But the way she looks at him, it’s like she doesn’t know shit. She stares back, looking like he’s just slapped her across the face. Wide-eyed and lips quivering once, twice.

 

Then she breathes in, makes a face, turns around to go back to the counter. “It was days ago, plus you didn’t even know him.”

 

Part of him wants to rationalize it, understand that if when her boyfriend left last summer for college and called her a loser for staying in town, she didn’t shed a tear, only pretended like he’d never existed for two weeks, before properly mourning the failed relationship, then well. Then maybe denial is her first reaction, how she’ll deal with everything, erasing tragedies from her head to try and erase them from the world.

 

But that’s only a part of him, and it’s not so big.

 

Most of him wants to be angry at her for being insensitive, most of him just wants to be angry at everything and everyone, because the guy made it to the hospital but may not have survived surgery, and he needs him to be alive, because if he is, maybe he’ll stop feeling like he’s broken.

 

Mondays tend to be slow some weeks, but staying there with her humming and singing when there’s only the two of them, it makes him madder than he can put into words. So he goes to the backroom to do inventory on all the old and extra DVDs and even the long stacked cassette tapes, and when his shift is over, Ashley’s gone already, only the night guy, who they both make fun of together, there to wave him goodbye.

 

He grabs his backpack and waves back absentmindedly on his way out, obsessing over not having talked to Ashley even once after their little argument.

 

#

 

Michael and Calum are still in high school, in their senior year in the same school where Ashton and Ashley went. He keeps meaning to call and ask how the exams are going, but instead he rejects calls or lets his phone ring until it runs out of battery. Like Anne and Ashley, he loves them too, dearly dearly, but.

 

He can’t.

 

#

 

By Tuesday, he’s not thinking about the boy, but what was left behind inside him. It’s like a lever pulled, a button shifted, and then everything changes, his own body becoming strange and unknown, machinery he hasn’t mastered how to work yet. He finds himself crying at commercials, rolling his eyes at dramas on TV that make Lauren weep.

 

By Wednesday, he’s not properly speaking to any of his friends. He’s ignored Ashley until she managed to be mad at him, too. Michael’s ignored texts grew angrier and Calum’s more desperate.

 

By Thursday, Harry cooks them dinner, smiles widely when he says he’s got good news. Lauren raises her eyebrows with a curious look, Ashton picking at his food with disinterest when Anne encourages Harry to go on. He says he’s got an A+ in his English composition, and they all applaud him with smiles. It almost feels normal, but then comes the time when Lauren and Harry leave for the living room to watch TV, and Anne and Ashton are alone, clearing the table and washing the dishes.

 

(He asks her, straightforward and out of nowhere: “Is he dead or alive or what?” to which she shrugs, says, “More like ‘or what’.”)

 

By Friday, on Anne’s day off, she wakes Ashton up early to help her clean the house, and when they’re both done and tired and sitting on the recently vacuumed carpet, she offers him a beer, which she never really does. Ashton takes it, drinks a little, and they’re quiet for a moment.

 

Anne has her hair pulled up in a straight bun, and her skin’s still sweaty like his, too, but she looks somehow younger than when she comes home after a shift, looking impeccable. “We have to talk about it at some point, you know.”

 

He’s still holding the bottle of beer, his back against the cupboard, hers across him against the wall. He stares at his big hands, parts his lips, but sound doesn’t come, not yet anyway. Ashton searches his head for when he stopped feeling like talking about it was an option, when avoiding the whole world felt easier. But he doesn’t want to talk to a psychologist and he’s afraid that’s where Anne will go, so before she can say it, he says whatever’s on his mind, and what’s on his mind is:

 

“He’s nobody. But he can’t be dead.”

 

Anne gives him a funny look, like she can’t believe it or won’t buy it. “Nobody’s a nobody. Don’t be silly. He’s a boy not much younger than you, with a loving family and siblings who come visit. He was supposed to have a bright future, I’m sure.”

 

Snorting, he looks away. “Aren’t you supposed to say that I never even met him, that it makes no difference to me?”

 

She snorts back. “Well, it obviously does, so why fight it?”

 

And he’s tired of fighting. It’s been a week and he’s so exhausted, can’t take any more fighting or any more sleeping. All he wants is to stop, but he doesn’t know where to go from there, doesn’t know how to react to the expected and the unexpected, his friends wondering and his mother knowing.

 

“What’s his name, anyway?”

 

As if it’s been on her mind a lot lately, too, she answers without hesitation: “Luke Hemmings.”

 

#


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! as promised, here's the second chapter. i hope you're enjoying the fic! thank you so, so much for the comments. it means a lot to me that you'd take the time to let me know how you're liking it -- and hey, even if you didn't leave a comment but took the time to leave kudos, that still makes me smile real' wide. so thank you. thanks a lot.

That night, Ashton dreams that he was shot instead.

 

In his dream, Anne cries and cries and cries until she grows too thin and dies too. Lauren doesn’t know how to deal with Harry and Harry’s not ready to be responsible. His father’s still gone and his siblings are then all alone too.

 

He wakes up breathless, shaking, but he also makes up his mind.

 

#

 

On Saturday Anne’s on call. With her three children around the table on breakfast, she suggests, “We could do something special tonight. What about a family movie night? It’s been a while.”

 

Lauren’s face lights up. “Let’s watch _Easy A_!”

 

“No,” Harry frowns, pained expression and growing uneasiness.

 

Anne stares at them curiously for a moment, like she means to ask, but then her eyes drift back to Ashton, raised eyebrows but still that smile, like she knows she’s doing something right, like this is everything she needs and maybe he does too.

 

“Can’t,” Ashton says, pressing his lips together and glancing Anne’s way before looking down on his plate. “I promised Ashley I’d be her plus one in a family dinner, so her uncle and aunt stop bothering her about getting a boyfriend.”

 

“And _are_ you her boyfriend?” Lauren teases, unfazed.

 

Harry doesn’t even react, just gets another forkful of food in his mood, and Anne watches Ashton for a second, and he thinks he’ll be caught, this is it, time to come clean. But then she shrugs, says, “What a pity. Well, tell her she’s welcome to come to our next family dinner, too,” and then smiles, asks Harry about football practice and they don’t touch the subject again.

 

#

 

During his shift, he almost tells Ashley. He’s nervous, talks to a couple of customers through the day but can barely help them. Ends up recommending a couple looking for something romantic to watch _The Covenant_ and suggests _Fight Club_ to a bunch of pre-teens. Half hour before his shift ends, he’s fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, standing by the mystery shelf of DVDs, looking at her.

 

She’s behind the counter and in front of the register like she usually is, thumbs sliding madly against the screen of her cell phone like they usually do, all attention focused there. Something about the insistence of his eyes get to her, though, because she looks up, and when their eyes meet, it’s just. It takes everything not to tell her, because he wants to, and he’s been feeling so alone.

 

But it was his choice to shut off everyone, wasn’t it? How does he go back on that, say he didn’t mean to, or that he did and needed some space, but that now he’s about to get closure and they can go back to the life they always led together? Ashton doesn’t know how to do these things.

 

That’s why he looks away when Ashley doesn’t, and half hour later when their shift ends, they merely nod acknowledging at each other before going in opposite directions, she in her car, he in his bicycle.

 

#

 

Most times when Anne works weekends, Ashton brings her lunch, sometimes snacks. When he went to high school nearby, he’d often bring her food just to remind her that he was still around. On his way to the hospital, in fact, he passes his school—Calum’s and Michael’s—and there’s something overwhelming about it, about looking away, not wanting anything to do with it.

 

Which goes to say, he’s well-acquainted with many people who work at the hospital. As he parks his bicycle next to others, he sees the janitor out smoking a cigarette, walks to him with an uneasy smile, bumps his fist like they’ve done since Ashton was little.

 

“Didn’t see your Mum today,” he says, then takes a long drag.

 

Ashton always liked the guy, even if he’d forgotten his name fast, and never asked again. He’s a tall man with a prankster smile, who trash-talks about most people Anne doesn’t like, makes her laugh. When he was old enough that his father wasn’t around anymore and young enough to want a proper family, he used to think that maybe Anne and the janitor would start going out. He’d love to have him as a father, except for the cigarettes.

 

He hates the smell, it sinks on clothes and hair, leaves traces behind no matter what, but still he’s hypnotized, watching the janitor with the cigarette, blowing out smoke shapelessly.

 

“Mum’s on call. I didn’t come for her.”

 

The janitor nods, like he understands. Ashton shifts his weight to the other foot, looking around, taking it in and trying to rationalize the parts he doesn’t. His thoughts were pretty linear: leave the video rental shop, go to the hospital, check if the kid’s still breathing, get over it, get back to his life. But now that he’s here, the logistics of the details still not figured out, he feels a little nauseated, like he might be sick any minute.

 

The moon’s already shy up there in the sky, the parking lot not so busy without traffic of ambulances like it sometimes gets. Just the janitor sitting on a bench, smoking a cigarette during his break (or during his work time, no difference to Ashton), and he looking around, trying to find a way in.

 

“I don’t suppose I could just walk in the ICU,” he tries.

 

The janitor chuckles, shakes his head. “Nah. Visiting hours doesn’t start for another hour or so.”

 

A little hesitantly, he nods. “In another hour or so doesn’t work.”

 

The janitor doesn’t ask why. He simply nods again, gets back to his cigarette, and then he thinks, he’s back on his own. He’s about to go in blind, ask around until something starts working, when the janitor says: “You know Dr Ponzio and your Mum had a fight?”

 

Ashton blinks a couple of times, looking back at the man.

 

“It was something about a patient who went into cardiac arrest a couple of times. Anne said she knew what this was about, but Dr Ponzio didn’t want to trust a nurse on this. Turns out, Anne was right, and the guy died,” he shrugs. “Your Mum blames Dr Ponzio, and I guess I would, too.” He pauses, looks at him with raised eyebrows. “What I’m saying is, Dr Ponzio is a pretentious doctor, but she still wants to be on good terms with Anne. I think she’d go through great lengths for that.”

 

His mouth shapes into a smile before he even registers, says, “Thank you,” and is out of there before even hearing the janitor’s little pleased laugh.

 

What he remembers of Dr Ponzio is that her name is Beatriz, she’s a short brown-skinned woman with curly hair and dark eyes, Hollywood-white smile and constant frown of concern. She watched him once or twice when he was little, before Lauren was born and he was the big brother. He also remembers how big her ego is, which is why the absolute first thing he says when he finds her, is how young she looks. From there it’s just pointless chitchat, his heart beating so loud he can feel it climbing up his throat.

 

Dr Ponzio talks to him quietly, like she doesn’t want the others to hear, but around him are just the same nurses he’s also grown up with, the people who paged her to call her there. At some point, she puts an arm around his shoulders, taking him away from the watchful eyes of the nurses, and asks him:

 

“How is Anne doing, anyway?”

 

Ashton presses his lips together.

 

It does feel like scheming something bad, lying and manipulating. Not only he’s going behind his mother’s back to even be here, he’s also abusing information he wasn’t supposed to have. But he’s already here anyway, Dr Ponzio looking at him in expectation, so he tries to quieten the voices in his head telling him this is the type of plotting that would get him in big trouble if he was only a couple of years younger, and shrugs.

 

“Alright, I suppose. She was actually—She wanted me to wait until she was back to come here, but I couldn’t wait, and then here I am,” he offers her a sad smile, and she nods, interested. “I could use a favor, actually, if you don’t mind.”

 

Promptly, Dr Ponzio nods once more, taking a step back to look at him properly.

 

“My friend is in the ICU, and I need to see him,” he says, maybe too loud, maybe too fast, but it feels like jumping off a cliff, falling down down down, no way to make it go slow or turn around and give up. “I have to be home for family dinner in about an hour, so it needs to be now.”

 

The doctor makes a face, looking over her shoulder, either to check for colleagues watching her or for a way out. Either way she looks back at him, a resident in this hospital for years, and asks for the friend’s name.

 

Ashton didn’t think it’d be this easy.

 

Then again, he underestimates how far people would go to keep around valued friendships. He should take a lesson from that. But that’s not what’s on his mind right now.

 

First he has to leave his backpack and cell phone with a receptionist, and then wash his hands repeatedly until Dr Ponzio stops making a face at him. Then they’re on their way, each step not nearly as loud as Ashton’s heartbeats.

 

On the door he can read: ICU – INTENSIVE CARE UNIT.

 

What’s on his mind is the smell of ether as they walk in the big ICU saloon, past the doors to the public, interns going around, checking clipboards by the ends of beds, charts in their hands, countless hospital beds lined up in two rows, one to each wall, separated by curtains. Sometimes closed, sometimes not.

 

What’s on his mind is that his hands are back to shaking, and he has to keep them tucked into the pockets of his jeans so the doctor walking a couple of steps ahead of him doesn’t notice.

 

“Dr Walker performed the surgery on your friend, I heard,” she says as she walks purposefully on, Ashton struggling to catch up. “Brain injury, wasn’t it? Dr Walker is a fantastic neurosurgeon, Hemmings was lucky to have her.”

 

Ashton just nods absentmindedly.

 

This is when he questions whether this is a good idea. This is when his heart won’t stop going round and round. This is when he regrets coming in the first place, coming such a long way to end up here, feeling his stomach turn as he passes the ill in the ICU room.

 

Abruptly so, Dr Ponzio stops.

 

“You have five minutes, alright?”

 

No, not alright.

 

Nothing about this is alright.

 

The first thing he sees is the closed eyes, and what he thinks is that the boy is dead. He must be, if his eyes are shut and his chest is practically unmoving, if there are so many tubes connected to the veins on his arms and to his mouth. But the EKG to his right shows a steady heart frequency, so his heart is beating.

 

No matter what, his heart is beating.

 

He takes a tentative step forward, feeling his whole body shake, setting his jaw so it won’t show. The purple bruises are all over the boy’s face. His head is shaved, stitches start about three fingers before his left eyebrow, and continue for longer. His eyes are swollen, lips cut.

 

“What’s—?” he tries.

 

Dr Ponzio, still there by the end of the bed, sighs softly. “He’s in a coma, love. Five minutes, yeah?”

 

Ashton must have nodded, because she leaves.

 

He raises his hand, but can’t bring himself to touch the bed, not even to rest his weight, to stop him from feeling like he’s losing his ground. What did he think, honestly? That he’d see him and feel like every little thing in the world was right? It wasn’t. It isn’t. He looks back at the clipboard so he has somewhere else to look at, sees the boy’s age. He’s still seventeen, two years younger than Ashton, definitely still in school. Luke Hemmings, minor, brain injury, fractured ribs.

 

His fingers dare to touch the clipboard, but his hands are shaking so much, it feels like the sheet is made of blur. He reads names of the attending physician involved, but he can’t remember if he knows who the person is, can’t even remember what five minutes feel like.

 

Like a magnet attracted to tragedy, he’s back to looking at the boy’s face, how quietly his chest goes up and down, barely showing any sign of life.

 

How insane.

 

He can’t help the weight against his chest, the tears that come to his eyes. This is a seventeen year old boy who could be everything, but he’s in a coma in a hospital bed in the ICU, a stranger sneaking in to see him. In a way it should make him feel sick, like he’s invading the boy’s precious privacy, but what if he isn’t, what if his being there makes it better, what if, what if, what if.

 

“I wish you’d wake up,” he says, voice choked and small, and then closes his eyes. “It’s just—I know half the time things aren’t easy. I’ve wished I was in your place more times than I can count in the fingers of one hand. But it’s still worth it, isn’t it?” he opens his eyes again, finding his vision glassier and blurrier than before. “Mum says you have siblings. They put things into perspective, don’t they? If they’re little ones. I don’t know what it’s like, having an older brother or sister, someone to tell you about all the awkward turns you’re going to take eventually. But it makes you feel powerful to be the one to put your arm around their shoulders and be the one to warn them instead.” Ashton pauses, sniffs, tries for a smile. “Doesn’t it?”

 

The noise of an intern pulling the curtains to the next bed closed startles him, but it also makes him feel more relaxed, as if the next person in coma won’t mind his talking, and somehow this is private enough. So Ashton forces a smile, takes another step towards the boy, even if he can’t bring himself to touch the bed or look him in the face too long.

 

“Your family misses you. I’m sure. I think—I think my friends miss me, too, but I just—it’s not as simple for me. I can’t just open my eyes,” he pauses, laughs, but it comes out weak and strange. “I mean, just. Open your eyes. Please.”

 

And like that, he’s crying.

 

Not much longer, Dr Ponzio comes back. She murmurs, “Oh, dear,” and Ashton buries his face on her shoulder before she has any time to react. She hugs him back, giving him reassuring taps on the shoulder as he sobs against hers.

 

When he looks at her again, he feels his eyes burning.

 

“When is he going to wake up, Beatriz?”

 

She breathes out heavily, presses her lips together for a moment. “We don’t know if he will at all, Ashton.”

 

#

 

There’s a strange weight on Ashton’s chest when he leaves the hospital, wind on his face as he pedals fast. It’s like, well, it’s like he’s been wrong all along. He thought one thing, then got there, and found himself rambling on and on to a kid in coma. He wishes he could explain how that had worked for him, how he could speak to him and not everyone else, but he still had a lump in his throat even as he understood where the bike was taking him.

 

Luke Hemmings’ face is burned behind his eyelids. Everything from the bruises to the softness ruined. In the short way to Michael’s house, what he keeps thinking on a loop is what are the things Luke likes and dislikes, how he feels about math and biology, if he ever wanted to be a teacher or if he used to dream about being a rock star.

 

Ashton doesn’t feel like crying, though.

 

If his eyes have settled for a frozen image of an unconscious boy, then his ears have settled for the echoing sound of the EKG showing a steady heart rate.

 

Alive.

 

Ashton gets off his bike, leaves it by Michael’s porch when he stops in front of the door, holding his breath when he rings the bell. To have something to do with himself, he holds the straps of his backpack, feeling a little dizzy and hungry, realizes he hasn’t eaten since lunch, and even then, it was so little. He’s not been eating enough.

 

Eventually, Michael’s Mum answers the door. With a sweet smile, she welcomes him in, puts a hand on his shoulders and asks, “How are you doing, Ashton?” and Ashton just nods, doesn’t even question it, because the fact that Michael told his mother and Ashton couldn’t bring himself to have a decent conversation with Anne, it makes him jealous to the bone.

 

She takes him to the end of the stairs, then just says she’ll be in the kitchen helping Michael’s father with dinner. Ashton knows the way, all right. Still it doesn’t feel right, like invading his privacy, sneaking in on him. Ashton has to tell himself he’s being paranoid, that this is one of his best friends, but.

 

Ashton knocks on the door, and when Michael yells to come in, he opens the door a bit, standing by the bedroom entrance with parted lips and an uneasy smile.

 

Michael looks up from his computer, stares at Ashton for a second, then his eyes are back on the computer screen, like he isn’t even there. Ashton looks away, grabs the straps of his backpack again. “Mike—”

 

“Ah, so you remember my name, fantastic.”

 

Ashton presses his lips together, closes the door behind him. He knows he’s had it coming: he’s been ignoring his best friends for days when a week ago they were crying in each other’s arms. It doesn’t feel new and untouched, though, it feels old, like a thousand years ago, a broken record telling them it’s all going to be all right but it isn’t, they’re changed forever, Luke Hemmings is changed forever, they’re all different people than they once were.

 

What he wants to know is whether they can still have each other as different people, but the question won’t come out.

 

He sits by the end of Michael’s bed, drops his backpack to the floor, sighs heavily and tries to put his thoughts in order. There’s so much he wants to tell Michael, and at the same time, he’s not sure what to say, how to word what’s all over the place in his head.

 

“You could have said you wanted some space,” Michael says, still to the computer and not to Ashton, but when Ashton looks, the screen shows his Facebook timeline, no chat windows open. “You could have—we would have understood. But you just bailed on us.” His voice gets quieter, and then he turns on his chair, looks at Ashton with those beautiful mean green eyes, full of resentment and hurt. “We were worried as hell, got to the point of asking Ashley if you were still going to work, because what the fuck, right? Anything could have happened to you, and we wouldn’t know,” he pauses, snorts. “She said you were, by the way, but that you were being a jerk. Calum was convinced he had said something that upset you, but you know that already, with all the texts and the messages he left on your phone.” Another pause, this one feeling colder somehow. Ashton looks him in the eye, breathes out softly, and Michael shakes his head. “We needed you, Ash. _I_ needed you.”

 

And he knows. What is he supposed to say? That he couldn’t help it, that he couldn’t let himself go there, that he felt like he wasn’t worth anyone’s time? That he was thinking of a kid who could be dead or maybe not, and talking to Anne was impossible even if she was available, and Ashley didn’t deal the way he did, and he didn’t know how he dealt with these things, because he’d never lost anyone. He’s a nineteen year old boy lucky enough that no one around him ever died, but then someone’s shot behind him in a party, and he feels like his head has spun out of control, impossible guilt piling up in his head: he could have stopped the shooting, he could have taken his friends out of there, he could have not gotten out of the house at all.

 

Lauren and Harry, too. How the hell does this even fit in the whole picture? How to explain to Michael that he can’t stop thinking about his sister with a bullet in her head, his brother lying on the mud with broken ribs perforating his lungs? How does he even let himself go there, without falling apart for good?

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

When he looks Michael in the eye after that, he’s sure Michael will snort, ask him if that’s the best he got, roll his eyes, tell him to leave. He’s not sure what he would do if the roles were reversed. And maybe because he’s so scared of Michael’s reaction, he feels his eyes fill up, and true he’s never held back when it came to crying, weeping in sad movies and whatnot, but this is different. This is old news and a broken record, but it’s still every bit as powerful and big as it was that night a week ago.

 

He doesn’t know if it’s his blurry vision or something else, but Michael sighs, looks at the floor for a second, shakes his head again, makes a face before saying, “You better be, you asshole. You better be.” Ashton parts his lips to talk, to swear that he is, that he doesn’t know how to fix it but wants to, and then Michael is standing up from the chair, walking to him, sitting next to him on the bed, sighing loudly. “It’s been a weird week,” and just like that, it’s like it’s back to normal.

 

At least that little fragment of Ashton’s life, his friendship with Michael. At least that.

 

Ashton also wants to tell him about where he came from, say that he kept wishing he could see what color Luke Hemmings eyes are, feel himself be looked at instead. But he doesn’t say any of that.

 

“Tell me how bad things are with Calum and Ashley.”

 

Michael throws himself back on the bed so he’s lying on his back. “Well,” he says, and Ashton does the same, looking at the ceiling next to Michael. “I’m pretty sure Calum still thinks it’s somehow his fault that you went M.I.A. He’s coming over to have lunch tomorrow, you could come too, you two will hug it out and he’ll make a lame joke about you leaving him behind forever, and you will be good.”

 

“And Ashley?”

 

Michael chuckles. “You know her better than me. What do you think?”

 

Ashton makes a face, looks away.

 

But for now this is enough. For now this is okay.

 

When he calls Anne to let her know that he’s staying at Michael’s, it takes him a moment to understand why she’s wondering about whatever happened to Ashley. By the time he remembers the lie, she most likely already caught up on the fact that it was a lie to start with. She still doesn’t ask whether he really is at Michael’s right now, still doesn’t ask any further questions.

 

Sometimes, he wishes she did. Only so he’d be forced to say the truth.

 

But she doesn’t, and he isn’t, so there’s that.

 

#

 

Michael’s right, like he often is.

 

Calum’s eyes light up when he sees Ashton. Ashton feels bad for a moment, but then Calum’ tiptoeing around him, like he wants to ask if everything’s alright between them but doesn’t want to take a wrong turn. Ashton ends up just pulling Calum closer by the hem of his shirt, hugging him until Calum stops feeling embarrassed and wary and starts sighing like he’s holding back tears, both arms wrapped around Ashton’s shoulders like he’s not ready to let go.

 

“Don’t fucking disappear on us again,” Calum tells him, too loud and too close to Ashton’s ear, but he just nods, smiling a bit.

 

Michael rolls his eyes from the kitchen sink, where he’s cutting vegetables. “I told him he was an asshole. Don’t let him believe otherwise.”

 

That makes Calum let go of the hug, laughing a bit, and when his and Ashton’s eyes meet again, Ashton gives him a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder, and maybe that’s enough for Calum, simple but honest, because in fifteen minutes it’s like this scene or the past week never happened, and he’s as wild and hyper as ever, throwing his arms up in surrender when Michael threatens him with a knife and narrowed eyes so he stops with the tickling.

 

They play videogames for most of the afternoon.

 

Before any of this happened, Sunday was the day he spent hangover in his room, only coming out to help with dinner if Anne wasn’t home, checking on whether Harry and Lauren had done their homework or needed any help with it—mostly to show that he cares, since he couldn’t be of much help—and that was about it. Sometimes when the party on Saturday hadn’t been especially good, then all he did was sleep. Sunday was for sleeping and staying in.

 

Today, Sunday is for reconnecting, for living in a bubble, for letting the fantasy get ahead of him, involve him in a beautiful world in which no one their age died, in which reliving stories from years ago is fun and harmless, Calum complaining about their physics teacher is valid, Michael vaguely commenting on a crush on the new history teacher Ashton never got to meet.

 

And then something changes, Calum’s eyes look away from theirs, he pauses the FIFA game Ashton hates so much but plays anyway just to indulge them. He presses his lips together, and before he says a word, Ashton knows what this is about. He can feel it in his bones, the storm coming, the dark heavy clouds just above their heads, never leaving them for too long.

 

“I heard—you remember the elementary school math teacher, don’t you? Mrs Hemmings,” and Calum pauses, Michael frowning and Ashton holding his breath. Because he feels suddenly sick, suddenly like he shouldn’t have stayed at all, like he should have run while he still had the chance, while the memories were still in vivid colors and there were no clouds in sight at all. “I heard it was her son, that day.”

 

The silence is overwhelming, but maybe the silence is only in Ashton’s head, because if he pays attention, nobody’s stopped breathing, the nocturne birds outside haven’t stopped chirping, Michael’s mother hasn’t stopped vacuuming the stairs carpet, nothing’s frozen and still except for himself.

 

Calum tilts his head to the side, meeting their eyes again. “You remember her? ‘Cause I do. I remember being like seven, telling her I was afraid of the bigger kids, and she telling me I was a superhero, that I had nothing to fear,” he smiles, fond of the memory and of her.

 

Michael nods. “I remember that,” he smiles too, and Ashton wants to tell him to stop smiling, because her son is now in a coma, and there’s no reason to smile. But he doesn’t, he’s quiet, he’s listening. “I remember her, is what I’m saying, I guess. It sucks that it’s her son, then. It really does. But didn’t he go to our school, then?”

 

Ashton’s thinking about her, about whatever memories he has of her, and he hates himself so much for it, for all the times he never properly looked her way, just nodded in acknowledgement instead of stopping and telling her she looked lovely, or to have a good day. He hates himself for hating math, for not getting it even when she tried her best to make it as simple as she could. He hates himself for not remembering what color was her hair or whether she had a nice smile, but still seeing her features in her son when he thinks of him.

 

Then comes the worst, Calum pausing for a moment, before saying, “That’s the weirdest part,” he licks his lips to gain some time, looks first at Michael and then at Ashton. “He was in our school. Just didn’t have many friends, I don’t know. I’d never seen him before, or maybe I just never paid attention,” and then he’s crying, actually crying, fat tears rolling down his cheeks, and Ashton wants to yell at him to stop talking, because his heart is beating too fast, but Calum can’t stop, not now. “He was in our year, Mike. I was talking to Aleisha today, she said they were friends. And we’ve never even—I never looked his way at all. I never even learned his name. She’s mourning, telling people to stop pretending like nothing happened, but the boy was such a wallflower. All I can think of is—”

 

But Calum never finishes that. Ashton will never know what is it that haunts Calum the most, because Michael shakes his head, brings Calum closer to him, and when Calum starts sobbing on his shoulder, Michael just closes his eyes, both arms around Calum, saying, “Ssh, it’s not your fault.”

 

And Ashton feels sick again, sick enough that his muscles feel sore and his bones electric, because what if it is? What if it’s their fault the boy never had any friends? Because Ashton was only a year older than them in school, used to hang out with Michael and Calum all the time, with Ashley by his other side, his older friends he never cared much for. And it was always them, a closed group impenetrable to others, looking down on everyone who dared look their way like they might want to join.

 

What if Luke Hemmings had been one of these people? The son of their elementary school math teacher? And though he may not know what the worst part for Calum is, he knows what the worst part for him is: that this whole conversation’s in the past tense. That he’s himself thinking of the boy in the past tense. But he’s alive. The EKG said so, beeping in his head for hours.

 

His breathing rhythm is erratic, and he lets his body rest against the couch, breathing in and out until he feels his chest steady again. Michael gives him a concerned look, touches his shoulder, one arm still around Calum. “Are you alright?”

 

And Ashton should say that he isn’t. He should say that he’s really not, that he’s not dealing with any of this the appropriate way, that yesterday he lied his way through to find the boy and spend five minutes with him, a stranger who didn’t have to be a stranger. What if they’d been friends in school, what then? Could that have stopped the bullet, or would it only have hurt more?

 

Ashton manages a weak smile, watches Calum look up at him from Michael’s shoulder, weeping tears off his face with the back of his hand. “I’m fine, it’s just—it’s fucked up. It’s just very fucked up.”

 

Calum and Michael nod, in silence, waiting for something else, but that’s as much as Ashton can offer them.

 

“I’m really sorry, it must be worse for you, going through it at the school and stuff,” he adds, like that might help or might clue them in for what it’s been like for him instead, but they’re still quiet and Ashton’s head is still messy. “I have to go, though. Mum’s shift has probably ended already, she must be at home, and I haven’t really spent any time with her this weekend. Do you mind if I—Do you mind if I go?”

 

Michael just shakes his head, tries for a weak smile that somehow makes Ashton want to stay, but he’s made up his mind and he’s already on his way upstairs to get his backpack. When he comes back to the living room, Michael and Calum are playing again, Michael has picked up Ashton’s controller, and Calum’s laughing at something Michael said. He catches the smiles on their faces, Calum’s face nose and eyes red from the crying, but the smile still very much there.

 

Ashton throws the backpack over one of his shoulders, tells them, “See you, then, sorry I have to go,” and Michael just nods again, but Calum pauses the game, walks to him.

 

When he’s close enough Michael won’t hear, he says, “I’m sorry for bringing that up. Don’t leave again, yeah?”

 

And that, that makes Ashton smile, albeit sadly. He nods, gives Calum a quick hug, and then he’s back on his bicycle, back on the roads, pedaling fast so the night breeze can make him feel something.

 

#

 

If he was asked—and he wouldn’t be—he had no idea how he could get away with it, or how long until she caught him. But it wasn’t long at all, he feels, not even long enough for him to make up an excuse or even conceal whatever was still going round and round in his head.

 

By the time Ashton gets home, Harry is already asleep in his room, and Lauren is curled up on a blanket with her head resting on Anne’s lap in the living room, Anne still watching whatever movie Lauren fell asleep watching. And the image by itself is a lovely one to walk in on, so much he finds himself smiling in spite of the weight against his chest, but then Anne’s eyes meet his, and she doesn’t smile back, just looks at him, dead-serious.

 

“We need to talk. Grab something to eat, take a shower, I don’t know. I’ll be in your room in half hour.”

 

It’s the formality that gets to him, not the look in her eyes. It’s the tone in her voice, how similar it is to when she sat with him to say that his father wouldn’t be coming back, ever. It’s not a tone that tells him he’s in trouble—she isn’t narrowing her eyes and letting air out through her nostrils like a bull, banging fists against the table to ask _what was he thinking_ when he thought he could hide from her the fact that he was failing math, in his senior year. It’s different.

 

Like he doesn’t know what to do with himself either, is as lost and clueless as she is, he nods absentmindedly, ignores the suggestion to eat and the kitchen, goes straight upstairs for a quick shower and then pacing around his room, hands on the back of his head, wondering, wondering, wondering.

 

The wait is part of the punishment, he knows. It’s always been. His nervous heart can barely take it, his impatient mind always wanders to the darkest places when there’s nowhere specific to go. He’s thinking of death and loss and bullets in no time, feet going around the bedroom like he’s mapping it for later. Like he may need an escape route. He counts how many steps from the door to the window, how many from the window to the bed, then thinks back of how many different ways there is to escape.

 

Anne pushes the door open without knocking first, and Ashton sits on his bed, pressing his lips together. Anne sighs as she clicks the door closed, sits next to him, rubs her palms against her thighs. It’s only a moment, but it’s enough to get his mind going to dangerous wild places, of yelling and crying and EKG machines that go silent.

 

“Beatriz told me about you going in the ICU to see the boy.”

 

Ashton looks at her, all these things stuck in his throat, half-assed apologies and poorly-made excuses. Instead, he ends up sighing, staring at the floor, saying: “She said he might not wake up, in other words.” Pause, then he looks at her, and it’s what’s on his mind on a loop, but still out loud it sounds strange, like something that doesn’t belong in there—in his voice, in his bedroom—at all: “Brain injury, fractured ribs.”

 

He doesn’t know what he’d been expecting, but Anne nods slowly, looks him in the eye. “It perforated his lungs, and he had a pleural effusion. But he’s got a tubular drain on his thorax, now, a chest tube, really, so it’s not the worst of his problems. On the right side of his body,”she reaches for him, touches the side of her son’s torso with light fingers. Ashton stares at her hands until she sighs and retreats. “Dr Jing thinks he’ll be ready for extubation sometime around next week.”

 

It sounds like good news. He’s heard enough about the patients of the hospital through the years to know that extubation means progress, means healing, getting rid of some of the tubes to give the patient more autonomy, independence. It’s something good. He can’t for the life of him understand why Anne avoids his eyes, looks like she’s holding her breath, like this conversation is long overdue and at the same time, she wishes she could still postpone it.

 

“And the brain?”

 

She gives him a brief look before looking away once more. “What is there to say? He underwent surgery, he made it out, but he’s in a coma. Comas like these are unpredictable. The patient may wake up tomorrow, next week, next month, or never. Dr Jing is the resident doctor treating him, and she’s doing her best. We all are, Ashton. But when it comes to the brain, there isn’t much any of us can do. There’s only so much you can do to fight something as big as this. We just have to wait, try to treat his pleural effusion meanwhile, so if and when he wakes up, the patient won’t have to worry about a tube in his chest.”

 

Ashton’s quiet for a moment, staring at his hands on his thighs, looking at them and wondering if he could take it, if the roles were reversed. Not only with the boy, but also with Anne. How he could just go around the ICU with so many dying people who won’t make it, trying his best to make them have dignified ends. But then again, wasn’t it all that was on his mind before? How he wishes he could have helped the boy have a dignified end? But that was before, all right. That was before Ashton knew he was still alive, still had a chance.

 

An EKG machine told him so, and he’ll ignore all the adult voices telling him otherwise. He trusts EKG machines and his guts.

 

His voice is surprisingly firm when he says, “It’s Luke Hemmings.”

 

Anne raises her eyes, frowns a bit. “I’m sorry?”

 

“You keep saying _the patient_ ,” he looks at her, sighs softly. “He has a name.”

 

It seems to catch her by surprise, maybe catches both of them, too, because the silence expands like it’s enough to swallow this whole room. Reluctantly, Anne nods, looks at him until he’s looking back, and he wishes he could know what he looks like right now, because Anne’s looking at him like she’s facing eminent disaster.

 

“I don’t think it’s good for you to see him. You don’t even know him. I’m afraid you might be projecting onto him your other… problems,” she pauses, presses her lips together, then suggests, almost shyly: “I have so many friends I could recommend you to, Ashton. You could talk to a professional about this and everything else, too.”

 

It’s one of these times, when he could say so much.

 

He could say it’s outrageous that she even goes there. He could say that he’s been trying really hard to get past everything, pretend like it never happened like Ashley does with all things, because if it works for her, maybe it will for him too. He’s trying so hard, always has, trying his best and it keeps being not enough, and sometimes he feels like yelling until there’s no more voice in his throat, no more air in his perfect lungs. But he doesn’t, he doesn’t because he loves her, he loves Lauren, he loves Harry, feels responsible for all three.

 

So calling him on his shit feels unfair. He could say that.

 

He could say he’s not interested in therapists. That he’s tried it twice, once when his father left, and once last year, and it never helped at all. He could say that all he wants is someone to talk to about the things he can’t tell Anne or Michael or Calum or Ashley. But he wants someone who’ll listen because they want to and because he wants them to, not because they’re being paid to examine his mental health. It feels like such a simple request, and yet.

 

But when he does speak, when he lets voice out, allows his speech organs to start working again, it’s none of that that comes out too.

 

“He was in my school. His Mum was my math teacher.”

 

And in the great scheme of things, Ashton thinks this isn’t much, a detail if anything, but still Anne nearly gasps, pulls him close, kisses the top of his head, hugs him like she’s afraid of what might happen if she lets go first. Ashton doesn’t cry, doesn’t even flinch, but it’s still a shift, still something he sees coming and settling there between them and inside him and her, and he doesn’t know what name to put on it, or if there’s any name at all.

 

When he looks at Anne, it’s she who’s holding back tears.

 

He wishes he could ask her how that one detail changes things so strongly for her, but maybe that means she’s talked to Mrs Hemmings before, when she was still Ashton’s teacher, or maybe this means she saw Luke when he was little once or twice. Ashton has no clue, and he doesn’t want to know.

 

So he just stays there with Anne, until she sighs and kisses the top of his head once more, tells him to get some rest, and that she’ll wake him up tomorrow for breakfast, but she can’t stay to give him a ride to the video rental shop, that she’ll give Lauren and Harry a ride to school instead, and then her shifts starts.

 

Before she’s out of the room, she says, “Visiting hours at the ICU start at seven pm, but his family is there during the first half hour, usually. They split in three groups. You can only go in the ICU in one or two people, and can’t stay more than ten minutes. If you come after the first half hour, you shouldn’t run into them.”

 

#

 

Ashton’s at the video rental shop early, at least twenty minutes before his shift. The owner, who leaves in the afternoon, is still there, and he’s forced to make small talk after small talk, from topics ranging between the weather to the newest films out. The man means well, he knows, some odd attempt to connect with his employees, but it falls flat and in no time they’re just awkwardly sharing the same environment, until the bell just above the door rings, and Ashley comes in.

 

She gives the man a polite smile, a half-assed, “’Morning, boss,” that might as well be for the two of them. Ashton’s first impulse is to be mad at that, at her, but that isn’t why he came early. He came early to make things right, not further his wrongs.

 

When she leaves through the employees only door and towards her locker, he follows her. It takes tentative steps, like he’s relearning how to walk and doesn’t want to mess it up. Ashley looks over her shoulder just to let him know she knows he’s there, but that’s about it.

 

Ashton tucks his hands in the pockets of his skinny jeans, sighs softly and rests his weight against the doorframe. “Ashley,” he says, hoping that will get her looking at him, but she’s still very focused in her locker. He presses his lips together for a moment. “I’m sorry I was a dick to you, okay? To be fair, you were also a dick to me.”

 

She snorts, turning to face him, raised eyebrows and a look on her face like she might snap at him or snap his neck. Ashton half-smiles, and she rolls her eyes, sighing. “You suck at apologies. I kind of hate you right now.”

 

His half-smile becomes something fonder, but still he crosses his arms to try and defend himself against any deserved backlash. “I do. I’m the worst at apologies and you’re right to kind of hate me right now. I just thought—I thought maybe avoiding everyone was the best way to deal with things. I’m not strong like you, Ashley.”

 

Again, she doesn’t look back at him, not right away, just shakes her head, the knots of her hand turning white as she holds the door of her locker and stares at its inside like she’s staring at her soul instead. “Don’t I’m-not-strong-like-you at me, Ashton. You know very well it’s not a matter of strength. You can’t bail on your friends like this, not when we’re all going through the same thing.” She looks at him again, tilting her head to the side. “This bullshit won’t work on me. You know that.”

 

He parts his lips. And he wants to consider his words carefully, like he does with everyone, but this is his best friend, and she knows him so well, maybe better than Anne. So he parts his lips, breathes out, and says:

 

“It killed me that you didn’t care, when it was all I was thinking about. I just needed some distance. Which is stupid, because I know how it works with you. I was just envious, I guess, that you weren’t losing your shit over this, and I was obsessing like I always do. It’s petty, but it’s what happened.”

 

Ashley gives him a long look, murmurs, “That’s progress,” and when he offers her a half-assed smile, she sighs and nods, closing the door of her locker, but still standing exactly where she was before, not close at all, but still feeling like they’re closer than a second ago. “It _is_ petty, because you from all people should know I’m not a heartless monster. I do have feelings, I do feel things, I get traumatized and I cry at night. The only difference is how I was raised, thinking I shouldn’t let others see me cry, thinking crying is wrong and makes you weak. I know it’s bullshit, too, but the difference between you,” she points at him, then at herself, “and me, is that you get to live what you feel, and I get shut down by myself. So I don’t need you to go and do the same to me, Ashton.”

 

He parts his lips to say something else, something more, but this is all, there’s nothing left to add, this is the truth and it hurts because it’s crude, no smoothing around the edges or softening the harsh tone of voice. Ashton nods, though, as Ashley starts walking his way. Except it isn’t his way, it’s right past him, hand already on the doorknob to start her shift and leave this conversation in the room to not be touched or looked at.

 

“Are we okay?” he asks, his voice small and timid.

 

Ashley sighs, looks down with a pained look. “No, we’re not. But we will be.”

 

It’s not good, but like so many things, it’s enough for now.

 

#


	3. Chapter 3

Through the day, they talk. Not complex conversations, nothing of the sort, but every now and then Ashton risks making a comment or an unfunny joke, and each and every time Ashley smiles at him. He’ll take the small victories, treasure them, do what it takes.

 

When it’s the end of their shifts, Ashley says goodbye to the guy who stays, walks to Ashton, and asks, “Do you want a ride?”

 

Ashton feels his heart beating like a drum. On the one hand, all he wants is some time alone with her, away form the video rental shop, where he can ask how was the week they spent seeing each other every day but at the same time away from each other. He wants to ask if that guy she’d been flirting with is still in the picture, the one that sort of happened before the party but didn’t really. He wants to ask what she did over the weekend, if she felt brave enough to go dancing or if she stayed in her bedroom writing poetry she won’t let anyone read.

 

But if she gives him a ride, she’ll have to know she won’t be taking him home, but to the hospital. It sounds like too much and too soon, or maybe that’s not that at all. Maybe he just wants to keep this to himself for a little longer.

 

“It’s okay, but thanks for offering.”

 

Ashley gives him a look, and he knows that look. It’s the you’re-on-your-own look. It’s her eyes narrowing slightly and her expression closed off. It’s her purse close to her chest and her fingers frozen with the car keys in her hand. So he clears his throat, jogs up to her.

 

“I mean, I just thought maybe you were offering just to be nice. If you mean it, sure, I’d love a ride.”

 

She rolls her eyes, but the look is gone, she’s smiling, walking to her car with Ashton trailing behind her. “I never do things just to be nice, Irwin,” and he laughs at that, gets an approving look, and he feels—he swear to God or any divinity up there—like every little wicked thing in the world is alright, because he’s got his best friend back.

 

In the car, they listen to ‘80s punk rock, sing along and yell the notes out of tune, with the windows rolled down. Ashton knows what happened still happened, the open wounds are still there and there hasn’t been nearly any time for the scarring process to even begin. But it’s still beautiful, looking wildly at Ashley, she looking wildly back, and they’re both two beasts fresh out of high school, with nowhere to go and nothing to do, stuck in an adult life none of them feel prepared for.

 

Ashley stops the car in front of Ashton’s house, and he gives her a long look.

 

“Want to come in? We’ll grab something to drink, go to my room, make a toast on cheap beer in honour of our wasted youth, and if we still feel like it, pretend to be successful young adults on our way to world domination.”

 

She turns the key on the car even though it’s poorly parked, gives him a mischievous look, and his heart beats so fast he thinks he might want to start yelling again. He’s drunk on this feeling of infinity before the first beer. Like teenagers, they sneak in the house that belongs to him, Harry engrossed in whatever the television’s showing, Lauren in her bedroom, Anne at work. Ashton distracts Harry as if he needed any distraction, while Ashley giggles on her way to steal bottles of beer she brings upstairs, whistling when he’s safe to come up too.

 

And it’s all so ridiculous, because honestly, Harry knows he drinks sometimes, so does Anne, it’s why she keeps the refrigerator filled in the first place. But there’s some thrill to it, to pretending he’s fifteen and not allowed, sitting on the window pane of his bedroom with his best friend, making a toast to things they’ll never be, like astronauts or rocket scientists or famous or happy.

 

“Are we okay?” he asks again, after the first beer bottle is empty like his head.

 

Ashley gives him a sly look, tilts her chin up with a smile. “Ask me again when I’m sober,” she pauses, opens the next bottle, “but we’re going to be okay, aren’t we? We’ve got each other. It’s us against the world. Misery will have to struggle to catch up.”

 

And lately he wouldn’t let himself go there, especially not with the more urgent and pressing matters, namely the boy in the hospital and the bullet wound in his head. But for this moment, he does let himself go there, think of the past months before the party, and he feels a sour taste in his mouth when he says, “It always catches up, though.”

 

She nods, but her heart’s not in it. She’s got a joke on the tip of her tongue, something about them being millionaires and having followers all over the world. Ashley muses about what it might feel like, being this overwhelmed by love. Ashton just laughs, drinks some more. Sounds like a joke, indeed.

 

#

 

They both end up too drunk to move properly, Ashley sleeping over on his bed, Ashton on the mattress he keeps under it. When Anne gets home it’s the morning, she knocks twice before opening the door a bit. Ashton blinks a couple of times, recognizing first the countless empty bottles of beer on his bedroom floor, later the look in Anne’s face.

 

“Sorry about the mess,” he says instead of good morning, and she tilts her head to outside, not quite a request as an order.

 

There’s a pounding in his head, growing panic more than hangover, and there are about a billion things he wants to tell her in this fragile state, like that he loves her and he’s glad it was his father who left and not her, but by the time he manages to stand up, his head start spinning and he nearly loses his balance and falls back on the bed, where Ashley is still sleeping soundly.

 

He giggles, but Anne just stares, not seeming to find what’s so funny about this.

 

Once he’s outside the room, in the corridor with Anne, she gives him a long look, shakes her head. “What is wrong with you?”

 

And he never talks back. Because he loves Anne far too much and because when he was little he used to have nightmares about her leaving, too. But he’s hangover and still feeling a little drunk or just plainly sick, and he needs to piss and shower and check the time to find out how many hours left to feel like forgetting about the world until he needs to go back to the video rental shop.

 

“Mild depression, maybe, other than the cut scars on my wrists, the fact that I lasted a week in community college, and I’m going nowhere with my life.”

 

Anne frowns, blinks a couple of times, looking half horrified and half concerned. She parts her lips to talk, but her voice seems to be failing her like Ashton’s had been for the last of weeks or months or years. Ashton sighs heavily, wipes sleepiness off his eyes with the back of his hand, holds his weight against the closed door.

 

“I had an argument with Ashley, thought it was a good idea to invite her over so we could properly make up. We did. Sorry I didn’t let you know she was staying, or asked for that matter. I know the house is still yours,” he pauses, looks at her. “Sorry we drank all your beer, sorry we got so shit-faced, sorry she didn’t park her car properly.”

 

He pauses once more, and this time it feels like the conversation is over, because Anne doesn’t speak again. It’s just—maybe it isn’t such a long time of quietness, but everything echoes in his head, and he can’t deal with this right now, with any of this, the pretending not to know balanced with the pretending to know. It’s all too much, he feels, and he really needs to just lock himself in the bathroom and do what he needs to do, followed by the coldest shower he can think of, to get rid of all this dirtiness in his hair and skin, the smell of Ashley’s cigarettes from last night that have sunk to his muscles.

 

“I’m sorry I didn’t let you know I wasn’t going to the hospital anymore. I know it was hard enough for you to come to terms with the fact that I wanted to go again, and you probably just waited for me until visiting hours were over, and you probably called, too, but I didn’t pick up the phone. I’m sorry.”

 

Finally, Anne snaps out of it, nods slowly, crosses her arms like she doesn’t know what to do with them. She parts her lips to talk, it takes some time, but when it comes, her voice is weak and doesn’t sound like hers at all. “I’m just trying to give you what you need, Ashton, but I never know what it is exactly. I thought this boy was important to you—”

 

“Luke Hemmings,” he corrects, without even properly registering it.

 

She nods. “Luke Hemmings. I thought he was important to you, so I dealt with the fact that my son would rather go behind my back to spend time with a coma patient than with his friends. But then I get home and—” she stops herself, looking down, frowning.

 

Ashton swallows back the lump in his throat, feel his vision blur. “He is, Mum. He is important. I was just trying to save a friendship first. One issue at a time, isn’t that what therapists used to tell me?” he chuckles, and it sounds cruel, an indirect attack that he doesn’t mean, but Anne’s looking at him so vulnerable, and he doesn’t know what to do with that, either. “I’m sorry, again, I’m just. I’m trying, too.” He blinks a couple of times, looks away. “I need to see him again. Today, would today be okay?”

 

Anne nods absentmindedly, looks like she means to say something else, but her voice won’t get her there and Ashton wouldn’t wait anyway. He reaches for her, kisses her cheek with morning breath that makes her pull away and make a face, and that reflex smile on her mouth is enough to make him smile back.

 

“I’m going to take a shower now. I’m disgusting,” he makes a face. “What time is it? Close to my shift at the shop?”

 

She shakes her head. “It’s only a quarter to eight. Pull yourself together, let Ashley sleep, then prepare some decent breakfast, yeah?”

 

Ashton’s already on his way to the bathroom, but he still raises his hands with both thumbs up. When he closes the bathroom door, he lets his body rest against it, staring at all the whiteness around him. He doesn’t understand half of what he does, even less of what he feels, but if it came down to it, he’d say what he did last night was out of pure despair.

 

Not the mad conversations with Ashley that got them both giddy and daydreaming. No, what he means is later, when he got his phone and looked for Luke Hemmings on all social networks, memorized his face for later comparison, read his posts and tried to understand how come someone so lively can now look so dead, with tubes and machines keeping him safe, or as close to that as he can get anyway.

 

About ten minutes later when he’s naked under the cold stream of the shower, his fingertips touch the thin scars up his wrists. It doesn’t burn anymore. It doesn’t feel like he’s drowning. But it still doesn’t feel normal.

 

#

 

She’d asked him what he preferred, if he’d rather she stayed or left, and he’d told her to leave, so now that he’s alone with Luke Hemmings, he doesn’t know why in the first place it was so important that it’d be just them, nobody else.

 

There are limitations, obviously, in a window of ten minutes, with interns, nurses and resident doctors going around the big room, checking in different patients, directing family and friends to different beds. But Ashton still works the nerve to look away from the spreadsheet by the end of Luke’s bed and look at him.

 

It feels like starting over, sort of. This time, when he looks at all the tubes, he knows the extubation should be sometime later this week. When he looks at the fragile chest and remembers his right lung is struggling for survival, there’s some hope in it, in whatever makes him come closer to him.

 

His hands shake, obviously, still feel weird and unlike his own after washing them with the hospital soap so many times to diminish any chance of infection. If Luke was to get an infection, Ashton doesn’t care that his whole family comes to visit every day—he’d probably blame himself for the end of times. And the thought, for whatever bizarre reason, makes him smile, looking up at Luke’s face, purple eyes and cut lip, and he sighs softly, remembering what he looks like when his face is clean and his eyes are open and blue.

 

“Be honest with me,” is the first thing he says, “just how creepy is it that I stayed up all night looking at your pictures?” He chuckles, shakes his head, crossing his arms over his chest. “I hope Mum is treating you right, by the way, because yours was always nice to me. That’s something else, isn’t it?” he raises his eyes to Luke.

 

There’s no change. No difference in his heartbeat, in his unmoving body, unconsciousness and ugly injuries. But still Ashton breathes in and feels himself heard, which is such an odd thing to feel in his chest, but better than many things he’s felt lately.

 

“I don’t know if anyone’s told you, but I think your lungs are getting better,” he smirks, comes a bit closer still, so the side of his hips touch the bed, but of course he keeps his arms crossed, looking at him and talking in a softer tone, but still can’t bring himself to touch him at all. “Now all you’ve got to do is wake up, of course. Then you can call me a freak for coming back here after panicking and sobbing in Dr Ponzio’s arms last time.”

 

And it’s very, very weird, until it isn’t so much, and then it isn’t at all.

 

He’s pressing his lips together, looking at Luke’s closed eyes and not his wounds, and instead of wondering how far the bullet went or how he felt it when someone walked over his body and broke a rib into his lung, instead of focusing on the macabre and horrible and painful, he focuses on what he remembers Luke’s smile is. And it makes him bite the inside of his cheeks for a moment, and before he’s even letting himself think of why, he’s letting it out:

 

“I was a jerk to my Mum today, Luke. I shouldn’t have mentioned it, but I did.” He shakes his head. “When will I stop doing these things? I’m trying to leave it all behind, but I’m shutting it all off, and that isn’t working so well for me. Sometimes I think I’m losing my mind, and then… then I just end up…” he shrugs.

 

And maybe he’d say more, maybe that was it, but Nurse Walker clears his throat, says, “Nurse Irwin asked to let you know your ten is up,” and when Ashton tucks his hands into the pockets of his hands, it feels weird to just go with the nurse.

 

So he looks over his shoulder to the unconscious boy, and says, “See you later, Luke.”

 

#

 

The next day, when he and Ashley get off work, he convinces her to go to the boys’ school to pick them up. Calum is especially excited, declares they’re going to the beach before Ashton even has any time to consider it, or Ashley has any time to say no. He rides shotgun, too, with Michael and Ashton in the back of the car.

 

They’re listening to an old middle school mix tape Ashley and Ashton made together when they didn’t have anything better to do with their afternoons, one that Calum and Michael grew to love just because. Then Michael leans in a bit, tells Ashton as if it’s a secret that needs to be held dear: “I’m thinking of asking that girl Aleisha out.”

 

It takes him a moment to connect the dots, understand who Michael means and why that’s of any relevance. Still he lowers his voice too, tries to make it soft when he asks, “The girl who was friends with Luke Hemmings?”

 

Michael nods, looking either shy or nervous, Ashton could never make the two. He wants to ask more—ask what they talk about, if it’s the nameless and faceless Boy Who Got Shot, or if Michael is so used to hearing his name that this is why he doesn’t find it strange that Ashton calls Luke by his name. He wants to ask if Aleisha makes Michael cope with the trauma of being the one to watch him go down, or if they just exchanged notes in trigonometry class and from then on they started talking about bands and whether they’ll go to college at all. But asking these things, wanting in on that, would require him to admit a couple of things himself, like the fact that the only reason they’re going to the beach at all is because of Luke Hemmings.

 

There was something about it, going to the hospital again and seeing him, talking to him for ten minutes if so, about things that even if he was conscious he wouldn’t care about. There was something about it, and Ashton couldn’t name it, so that’s why he stays quiet instead, smiles approvingly, and lets Calum take over the conversation, struggling with his seatbelt to turn around and ask them:

 

“Why are you not singing, fuckers? Sing it at the top of your lungs, or I’ll sucker punch you into oblivion!”

 

Ashton can’t help laughing, Michael singing already when he joins in. Ashley starts yelling at them to shut the fuck up, but when _Take On Me_ by A-Ha gets to the chorus, she’s singing too.

 

It feels all sorts of amazing, singing songs he still remembers the lyrics to by heart, windows rolled down and still so hot he’s sweating against his shirt, one arm out of the window to show he’s reckless, or maybe pretend he has some control he’d never have. Watching his friends sing and singing along too, he’s reminded that feeling alive isn’t such a distant memory.

 

He’s a lousy surfer at best, but Ashley and Michael both rent surfboards to go surfing for a while, Ashley more than Michael, teasing his skills or lack thereof the whole time. Ashton and Calum stay by the sand, and as quietness grows comfortably between them, Ashton gives him a long look, smiles fondly.

 

Calum catches him looking but says nothing.

 

Calum’s seen him at his worst, not Ashley or Michael, which feels unfair when Ashley is his best friend and Michael is the person he feels closest to in the world. But it was Calum who caught him, walking in on him with a razorblade held tight between his fingers, pressing a cut to his wrist, blood licking his arm. He doesn’t remember the pain or what drove him to the edge in that specific time, but he remembers the look in Calum’s eyes, how wide they got, how he didn’t stutter or rationalize it. He just started shouting things about stopping the bleeding, nearly forced Ashton to make a tourniquet even though that was ridiculous and unnecessary.

 

But Ashton let him. At that point, with Calum so desperate, he can’t think of a single thing he wouldn’t let Calum do. Especially if Calum thought he was keeping Ashton safe.

 

The thoughts connect in his head but sounding random out loud, he tells Calum, “I like to think I look after you all, but it’s not that way at all, is it?”

 

Behind the shades of his sunglasses, Ashton can’t tell how Calum looks at him then, but still he offers Ashton a lazy smile, grabbing his T-shirt to serve as a pillow behind his head. “You know I’m not one for saying these things, but you’re the glue that keeps us together.”

 

He turns on his side, elbow meeting hot rocky sand, out of the towel. “How come?”

 

Calum sighs softly, lying on his back, facing the sun like the sun is the one listening instead. “We were all falling apart before you came along. You know that.” But he doesn’t. He blinks a couple of times at the obviousness in Calum’s voice, and he wants to argue against that, because it makes no sense. But then Calum’s tone changes, and he knows he can’t interrupt him. “Mike and I were always friends, sure, before you came along even, even though we all grew up more or less together. But we were purposeless. We sat around all day trying to think of new games to play, new ways to make toys work, uncreative and dull. When you’re a child, that kind of life puts you in a mood. When you’re a teenager, that kind of life puts you in danger.” He pauses, presses his lips together, and Ashton just watches, helpless, his mind blank and full attention there. “Michael was talking about it the other way, speculating what it’d be like, if you’d never come around and put us under your wing. I reckon we wouldn’t be the same.”

 

“I never did anything,” he interrupts, doesn’t want to but can’t help it anyway, knows he’s not allowed and this is Calum talking and saying something big, but still he can’t keep his damn mouth shut. “I’m a loser. I never even made it out of the town. How the hell does that give you two any perspective?”

 

Turning back to him, Calum gives him a look like he’s seeing Ashton for the first time. He pushes the sunglasses up to his head to look him in the eye, give him a long and curious look. Ashton parts his lips but there’s nothing else there, he’s said what he thinks and now the wait for an answer is almost painful. Still Calum takes his time, like he’s examining something complex, trying to put pieces together, unable to establish logic in any of this mess.

 

“Ashton, I hope you pay attention, because I’m only saying this once,” he frowns, breathing out. Ashton holds his breath. “You’re kind and compassionate. You’re fun even at your worst, and at your best you make everyone around you feel invincible. Growing up, you were our hero. At some point, you decided you weren’t worth being looked up to, but that was your choice and your choice alone. None of us ever felt differently towards you.”

 

It sinks but it doesn’t. It feels like when your parents are giving you instructions as to what house chores to do that day, and you’re trying really hard to focus and not forget the words, because you know they are important and relevant and might save you from listening to a lecture later. But still they escape you, like water between your fingers, or like this sand under them if Ashton tries to keep it in his palm and take a swim. It leaves his head even as Ashton hardly tries to keep a tight grip on them.

 

He hopes some of it stays. He really fucking does.

 

“I—”

 

Calum interrupts him, raising both his eyebrows. “Your worst quality though, by far, is that you’re the worst surfer I’ve ever seen. You’re worst than Michael. I pity you, really. You should get lessons from Ashley. You’re a disgrace.”

 

And like that, he turns back so he’s lying again, facing the sun with a smile on his lips. Ashton slaps him on the arm, a loud, “Don’t be rude,” out of his lips, and he’s smiling, too.

 

For a while, just feeling the sun against his skin helps.

 

It covers the marks.

 

#

 

What he tells Luke later that day when he’s at the hospital is that he and his friends went to the beach, and that Luke’s friend must be doing okay if there’s someone potentially falling for her, and also that when Luke gets out of there, Ashton will definitely need to know whether Luke is any good at surfing. Because he needs to find someone to learn with him. Learning all by himself would be no fun.

 

He finds himself sort of laughing, looking at the boy with closed eyes on the hospital bed. “Look, all I’m saying is, I wouldn’t judge you if you were kind of bad. Don’t tell them I told you this, but last summer I tried practicing with Harry because he wanted to learn, but he picked it up too quickly and then he started surfing with Lauren and her friends, and I was left with my position of kid bodyguard by the sand again.”

 

He smiles, bites the inside of his cheeks, and looks at Luke, the smile dying down but still somewhat there. He’s somehow managed to block out everything else, the noises and the people, and he still doesn’t touch him, can’t bring himself to and doesn’t see why he would anyway, but he gets closer than any other time before, and there’s a distant thought in his head, that maybe he’ll keep getting closer still.

 

Luke looks better each time, but when he tells Dr Jing that, Dr Jing gives him a sad smile and nods, saying it’s important to keep hopes up. He’s practically grown up in a hospital and around nurses and doctors, knows enough to know that this means they haven’t seen any change. But they aren’t looking at the right places. They’re looking at charts and clipboards and machines.

 

Ashton is the one looking at _him_. And he sees the changes, all right.

 

His skin is different, clearer somehow, doesn’t look as hurt and offended as before. The bruises colouring his face abused have subdued to a lighter shade of green, and he may not look like the boy in the pictures online, but he still looks so much better.

 

“Mum told me your chest tube goes away in two days,” he says, after a pause, eyes fixated on it. “That’s good, isn’t it? Your ribs will be fine, too. Just a bit more. I mean, you’ve only been here for a week and a half. I was doing some research online, and people like you are sometimes up to a month in the ICU alone,” he presses his lips together, looks at his long pale arm, veins blue and tubes transparent. “Hold on, yeah? The worst is almost over. Then you can wake up.”

 

And he can’t look Luke Hemmings in the face as he says it, because if he’s lying—and he doesn’t know whether he is, whether the worst is really almost over—and if he is, if it’s a lie, then it doesn’t matter that he can’t be caught on it. It would still be far too wrong to lie something so big.

 

That’s why he stares at his hand instead, turned with the palm up as if to receive a blessing. Ashton’s just thought a second ago, how pointless and useless it’d be to touch him, but he’s curious and his head is lazy, too much sun and his back is a bit burned, so he allows himself the luxury of reckless stupidity, his fingers tracing the skin of Luke’s palm so lightly it barely feels like he’s touching anything.

 

Because it stops feeling like that’s enough, he touches his hand for real, fingers sliding between Luke’s until he’s holding his hand, and that’s when Ashton feels like he can’t breathe at all.

 

Luke’s hand is warm against his, and it brings tears to his eyes. Of course he knows Luke is alive—the EKG machines, they never lie—but still, touching him, feeling that body warmth, a hand that won’t squeeze back his but will still feel him. That’s nearly enough to destroy him.

 

If Anne walked on him, he wouldn’t be able to explain how come he’s smiling through tears.

 

But it’s not Anne, just Nurse Walker again, so he doesn’t come close and his voice is overly polite when he says, “Visiting hours is almost over.”

 

#

 

It becomes a routine of sorts, going to the hospital every day after his shift at the hospital, sometimes making a quick stop with Ashley somewhere. Come the weekend, he still goes, but he spends every other second of it with either his siblings or his friends. It helps keep the mind busy, or maybe it’s because of his state of mind that he lets himself be around people so much.

 

Nobody comments on how more willing he is to be around them, but then again, maybe the big shift is in his head, and it’s only something minor, a big step made of millimetre.

 

In Luke’s third week in the hospital, the receptionist tells him he can’t see Luke.

 

The immediate first thought in his head isn’t that Luke died, but that Mrs Hemmings found out that her former worst math student has been visiting her son, and has now prohibited him to come any near Luke. Surely someone must have found how weird it is, someone who heard him talking about his day to a coma patient who went to his school but he never said hi to. It makes his shoulders tense, his voice fails him, a question stuttered that the receptionist doesn’t answer.

 

Anne comes first, probably warned by the janitor that he was already there. She smiles sweetly at the receptionist, then puts a hand on Ashton’s arm and takes him aside, for the people who are really involved in the ICU patients lives to come forward and talk to the receptionists instead. Or, no, not that at all, but it’s how he feels, wide-eyed and being removed out of the way, the words echoing in his head, that he can’t see the boy, can’t can’t can’t.

 

“He caught an infection,” she says, straight-forward, on the clock and ruthless. Ashton blinks a couple of times, lets his lips part but no sound comes yet. “Listen, I need a favor—I can’t make it to Harry’s game tonight.”

 

Ashton shakes his head wildly, feels his heart stop. “What do you mean, Luke caught an infection? Is he dead?”

 

Tilting her head to the side slightly, she frowns. “Ashton,” she says, but her tone is warning, like she’s asking a million questions there, such as have you lost your mind, and haven’t you listened to me talk about patients all your life, etc., etc., etc. “It’s just an infection. He’s responding to the antibiotics. It just means visitors aren’t recommended the first few days.” She pauses, looks at him again, as if asking whether she can go on.

 

And he doesn’t know if she can.

 

Because what he’s thinking is that patients die all the time because of infections. He’s never cared about anyone who was in a coma before, but he’s pretty sure that if you are, your chances of living out an infection are worse. Maybe. He’d ask, but Anne is giving him an impatient worried look, and he can’t think of a single reason why a stranger would be more important than his brother, so he drops his shoulders, presses his lips, then asks:

 

“Why are you not going? It’s all Harry’s been talking about for the past month.”

 

Anne shifts her weight to the other side. “Carla needs me to cover for her. Her mother is seriously ill, and she needs to be on a plane, but I can’t leave the girls alone—”

 

“Ah, sure, we wouldn’t want that.”

 

He knows why he’s like this. He recognizes his nervous leg, the shaking of his hands, the biting on the inside of his cheeks. Still he ignores it, pushes the thought aside, pushes everything aside as far as he can, because right now, he’s got a chance to focus all this into something it’s not, and every single time when he thinks about this in the future, he still takes it.

 

Anne parts her lips, but frowns.

 

“It’s important for Harry. It’s bad enough that his father can’t make it to his first real football match, when all the other kids have both their parents showing up. But if his Mum doesn’t come, either? The boy will be destroyed. He’s not even ten yet.”

 

It’s harsh harsh harsh and it makes Anne’s eyes fill with tears almost immediately. It’s low and it’s dirty and Ashton’s never played this card before, not like this, but his eyes are filled with tears too, and he’s terrified and can’t stop swallowing dryly like it’s a nervous twitch. Anne blinks a couple of times, regains composure before even entirely losing it.

 

“Don’t you dare,” she says, a bit too late, because hasn’t he already crossed the line? Still he stands there, chin up and staring at his mother, because although what he’s said is true and he believes it and he fears it for Harry, there’s always so much more. He thought he was getting better. He honestly did. But then an infection came along and his head’s a mess again. “Carla’s Mum is about to die. It’s a much more urgent situation than some football game. There will be other matches, but what about if this woman dies?”

 

What about if Luke dies?

 

Ashton’s nostrils flare, and he holds his breath.

 

“What is the favour you want to ask?”

 

She rolls her eyes, snorts, crosses her arms over her chest as if to shield her against the gratuitous hostility. “Ashton, be reasonable. You’re an adult.”

 

But that’s very close to the worst thing she could have said, he thinks. Because he’s out of school and has a job and no plans to move out of the house. He’s a functional adult but just barely. He has bills to pay but none of them are serious, most of his friends are in college and he didn’t even apply for any. He’s stuck and unmoving and still hanging out with high school boys, watching trains go by when he’s too painfully sober to think of something useful, and those are just Sundays, when there are trains in intervals of twenty minutes and he can’t get any notes right in the guitar. This is only when everyone’s too busy and he can’t stand to watch his siblings grow old and apart. This is only then, which is such a small fraction of his week. There are six more days, six more ways in which he’s not a real adult, doesn’t feel like one, rejects this sinking feeling and yet can’t bring himself to do anything more powerful about it.

 

Ashton clenches his jaw, feels his heart beating faster.

 

There’s an itching in his skin, it’s nearly panic that catches fast, but he won’t go there, won’t even touch the marks, because he doesn’t feel like opening new wounds, he’s just embarrassed of the scars.

 

“What’s the favour?” he presses.

 

It’s a low one, too, he thinks, because he’s well-aware Anne doesn’t have the time for this. Around them phones ring and people run, and she looks at the round clock on the wall behind him before looking back at her son. She looks a mess, like she might regret this, like she might cry after, but she’ll do it anyway, because it’s the right thing to do, and Ashton also knows that.

 

“Get Lauren from her friend’s house. Take her to the game. Harry already knows I’m not coming, he’ll go with a friend from the team, but Lauren can’t get there by herself. Do you know how to get there? It’s in the school they’re playing against, whatever—”

 

But he shakes his head, voice hard and hands shaky.

 

“I know how to get there. Is that all?”

 

Anne looks at him. And maybe she registers what she sees, maybe she doesn’t. But still, when she holds Ashton’s shoulder and levels with him, looks him in the eye, what she says isn’t that she’s mad, or that she’ll never forgive him for trying to make her feel bad about missing Harry’s game. What she says is, “Luke will be fine. It’s just an infection. They get infections all the time.”

 

He nods, head low.

 

#

 

The only good thing out of this is, maybe, that Ashton gets to drive Anne’s car. She gives him the car keys before he leaves the hospital, and there’s that reticent tone in her voice and in her eyes, like she’s either on the verge of telling him something or expecting him to do so. If it’s an apology for what he said, he wants to give it, just isn’t sure how to make the words work, not yet, not when he still feels like he’s not breathing properly, because the receptionist told him he can’t see Luke, and Luke’s got an infection.

 

He puts his bike on the truck of the car, drives home first.

 

On top of everything he needs, a shower is so up there that he strips on the way to the bathroom, home alone and feeling every bit as young and stupid as he felt when Anne called him an adult.

 

Still he puts things in perspective, or sort of does anyway, when the water is hot against his skin and reddening his shoulders. Luke won’t die, because this can’t be it. Luke will wake up and he’ll say it’s weird that Ashton kept going to the hospital, but will also be glad, so he wasn’t alone. Luke won’t tell him to go away and they’ll be great friends and he won’t be The Boy Who Got Shot to anyone anymore. He’ll be Luke, just Luke, and that’s it.

 

And if this one little part of his life doesn’t go to hell, then he can deal with all the rest. He’ll keep going to the beach and his friends will take turns pretending they’re not into surfing that day so he won’t be alone by the sand, and he’ll feel so proud of the ones dancing with waves that his chest will feel warm. And his skin won’t ever itch again where the marks are, and he won’t feel like doing it again, and he won’t remember his father or feel crushed by doubt and responsibility because he wants Lauren and Harry not to miss him. He’ll be fine, find himself a rewarding job, find something to do with his life so he doesn’t feel like he’s missing out.

 

Everything will be absolutely okay, as long as this one little thing goes right.

 

After, when he picks Lauren up at her friend’s, Lauren has this wide smile on her lips that makes him smile back, frowning a bit and saying, “What?”

 

She ponders this for a second, like whether she should share or not, but eventually, after putting on her seatbelt and pulling her hair up in a ponytail, she tells him: “Don’t be a freak about this, but I think I’m in love.”

 

And it’s so so so unexpected and beautiful, that he just smirks, turns the key on the ignition, murmuring a, “When have I ever been a freak about anything?” that ends up in him laughing and Lauren too. Ashton doesn’t really ask anything else at first, not really, but then questions start piling up in his head and he wants to know more. “Is it someone from school?”

 

Lauren gives him a doubtful look, narrows her eyes. He looks away from her and to the road again, just shrugging.

 

“Do you actually want to know or are you just making conversation? Because I do mean it, about thinking I’m in love for real.”

 

“I’m not making fun of you, I want to know. I’m curious.”

 

Lauren decides to tell him, and he decides to listen. Really listen, shutting off all thoughts about anything other than this magical moment: his sister telling him about what her heart wants, trusting him with this pearl to be cherished. And he does feel that way, silly and a little high, because he knows Ashley’s brother would rather die than have this conversation with her, and that though Calum and Mali-Koa are closer in age, they still would feel too awkward to talk about this. But still Lauren told him, and still she’s talking, and all he can think of, while she speaks, is how badly he wants everything to work out for her.

 

When she’s done talking and he’s done smiling, there’s a comfortable type of quietness around them, smoothing the edges of all the silences from before, when he was in a too bad place to look around. Then he says, “I love you and Harry more than anything.”

 

And she reaches out for his hand on the gear shift, covers it almost completely, and when he lets himself look at her, she’s still smiling that bright smile of hers. “We love you back, Ash. So, so much.”

 

Ashton knows whole relationships aren’t defined by tiny moments and love declarations, those are easy and come in batches. But he thinks they _are_ defined by touches of hands and shared smiles, how it takes Lauren a moment to lean back on the seat and reach for her purse, texting a friend about whatever. He thinks relationships are defined by how easy it was to say he loves them, and maybe they’re built on how fast the response came.

 

When she’s done texting, Lauren says, as if to continue the conversation, “Mum said you have a sick friend at the hospital, that this is why you’ve been going there every day.”

 

Ashton blinks a couple of times, caught off guard and heart racing. He could take this time to explain how horrifying things are sometimes, that people might have an argument in a party and someone might have a gun and then shoot you in the head. But it sounds off and wrong and unrealistic, so he just offers her a small smile. “Yeah. His name is Luke. He’s in Mike and Calum’s year.”

 

Lauren nods understandingly, like she just knows what she couldn’t possibly.

 

Once when she was six, they were both jumping on Anne’s bed when she wasn’t home, and that quickly turned into a pillow fight. Ashton never minded letting Lauren win those, her tiny body pulling an absurd effort into hitting him as hard as she could. He’d dramatically fall back on the bed, pretend he was wounded in war while she pretended she was a fairy warrior. Then once the pillow fight went wrong, and she accidentally let go of the pillow. It flew to Anne’s nightstand, hit her perfume bottle, and as it collapsed on the floor, Lauren just covered her mouth with both hands to muffle a scream.

 

Ashton had helped her clean it up, but still they needed to tell Anne. He was ready to take the blame, mostly because he felt guilty about being the one to invite her to play in the first place. When it had come to it, though, both of them looking sorry in front of her, Lauren didn’t let him. She was six, but still she admitted to having been responsible for the perfume herself.

 

They were both grounded anyway, but Lauren had said to Ashton that day, with a too stern look on her face for a child, that lying is always wrong. Always.

 

So right now, too, Lauren doesn’t risk lying. She doesn’t smile and say she’s sure Luke will be fine. She doesn’t put her hand over his again, say people have gone through worse than what he’s going through, and made out fine. She says absolutely nothing, just sighs softly and looks ahead.

 

It makes him uncomfortable, like she’s trying to give him payback for being rude to Anne. That’s exactly where he goes. “Aren’t you mad that Mum isn’t coming?”

 

But Lauren, stupidly prudent Lauren, only makes a face. “Nah, of course not. She’s covering for a friend. Wouldn’t you do the same if it was Ashley who needed some help?”

 

And he would, obviously, but still he hates being wrong.

 

The rest of the drive to the school is mostly silent, a mix between Ashton’s bitterness towards himself and Lauren’s daydreams about a boy a year older and with dark bangs. They still manage to make it bearable though, not nearly silent enough that Ashton’s alone to his own devices.

 

Harry doesn’t score and his team loses, but he’s still waving at Ashton and Lauren in the benches so wildly that Ashton can’t help but smile at him the whole time. Things are looking up. They must be, if both his siblings are still okay.

 

It’s just a damn infection. He’s responding to the antibiotics.

 

Nothing to worry about.

 

#

 

Ashton keeps meaning to say he’s sorry, but he can’t tell Luke about this, either, and Ashley just raises her eyebrows when he’s moody and quiet, and he only forces himself to pick up the phone because he doesn’t want to risk Michael and Calum being mad at him again. But it’s weird, wanting to say the words and knowing it’s the right thing to do, and still holding his breath when Anne looks at him, avoiding conversation and eye-contact.

 

She should be pissed, but she’s only sad. Somehow that’s way worse.

 

Harry doesn’t seem to have cared much, though, about Anne not coming to the game. On the ride back home, he was so excited to have played instead of having warmed the benches for the entirety of the game that it barely looked like his team had lost. Harry’s not usually the most affectionate kid, but in the car, whenever Ashton stopped in a red light, Harry would launch forward and hug him, thanking him a thousand times for coming, asking whether he saw that one time he was in control of the ball. Ashton couldn’t help smiling, but his stomach would sink further each time, because if Harry was alright, then he was cruel to Anne for nothing.

 

Still he doesn’t go to the hospital either, doesn’t ask about Luke or the infection, and for three days it’s like he’s back to his darkest place yet, dreading every single moment of the day, thinking of waking up as a curse, not looking his loved ones in the eyes because he knows they’ll see something they’ll wish they hadn’t.

 

But in the middle of his shift, alone in the video rental shop, just Ashley and Ashton, she walks around the counter and to him. He’s pretending to organize the horror section of DVDs, really he’s just running his fingers down the covers, wondering if his life became a movie, what genre it’d be, if a dark-humor British comedy or a cliché American teenage drama. Then Ashley stops next to him, bumps her shoulder into his, and he raises his eyebrows.

 

“Do you need any help?”

 

“Yeah, I guess,” she says, giving him a long look. “You can start helping me by telling me what’s wrong, then maybe we quit our jobs and go to Glasgow—you can help me with the money, if you don’t want to come along—and that’s as much help I need from you as I can ask.”

 

Ashton smiles, turning to her. “I’m glad you’re not too shy to ask for money to move to a different country.”

 

Ashley shrugs, like she can’t help it, and they both smile for a moment.

 

This is it, it’s decisive, feels like something he could never go back on even if he knows he could. Rationally, he knows he can shrug it off like he has a thousand times, and then later just sit down and say he needs to talk, and she’ll try, she’ll do her best, and maybe that will do it. But it’s been three days he’s barely spoken to Anne at all, hasn’t seen Luke, and that means he hasn’t talked to anyone about all the skeletons in his closet, all the monsters under his bed with clawed hands with a tight grip around his ankles when it’s after three pm.

 

“I was a real dick to Mum,” he says, eyes darting back to the horror section. “I mentioned my father, talked about him leaving, used it to make her feel guilty about not being able to come to Harry’s match. But he didn’t even care. He was so okay with it. And I wasn’t. I wasn’t, I overreacted, and now she hates me.”

 

Ashley narrows her eyes, parts her lips.

 

He chuckles. “No, she doesn’t hate me, I know that. But she’s upset with me, as she should be, and I don’t know how to deal with that. I know I should apologize, and I want to, but every single time I look at her, I feel ashamed for what I said, I run away like not even Harry ever did. How the hell am I supposed to be their father figure if I can’t even handle apologizing to the only person who’ll love me no matter what?”

 

He’s sort of known it was coming, he thinks, maybe it was why he let himself talk about it with her in the first place, but still he smiles a little out of surprise when she says: “Or, you could, you know, suck it up and apologize already.”

 

Ashton raises his eyebrows. “Sometimes it’s not that simple, Ashley.”

 

She gives him a smirk. “So you should take full advantage of the fact that this time, it really is.”

 

It still gets to him, in ways he’d rather not think about, Ashley’s words sinking like rocks in the vast and mysterious ocean that his mind is. Immediately he doesn’t do much, just roll his eyes at her simplicity, chuckles when she slaps him in the arm and demands help with boring inventory. But later, much later, when it’s after their shift and Ashley promptly drives him to the hospital, he’s come to terms with it, with what he needs to do and why he hasn’t before.

 

He asks the receptionist for Anne, and while she calls her, he looks around. For one terrifying moment, he thinks it’s Mrs Hemmings and a man, probably her husband. He holds his breath and turns away, but then he hears a doctor calling them Mr and Mrs Simonson, and he breathes again.

 

“She’s on her way,” the receptionist tells him with a thin smile, eyes back on the computer screen.

 

Ashton sucks on his bottom lip, staring at her until she looks back with a puzzled expression. “Can you tell me anything about Luke Hemmings? He’s in a coma in the ICU, and a few days ago he got an infection—”

 

Still with a thin smile, she tells him, “ICU visiting hours hasn’t started yet.”

 

And what the fuck is that supposed to mean, that when they start he can see Luke, or that she just won’t be bothered to check? But he says nothing, because she’s clearly said as much as she will about it, and she’s busy with other people and phone calls and computer things. So Ashton crosses his arms and looks away, walking to the nearest wall and resting his back against it until he sees Anne coming.

 

It isn’t long, not really, but it’s long enough that he plays back in his head everything that makes him hesitant and scared.

 

But Ashley is right. If some things really aren’t that simple, he should enjoy the things that are. _Take full advantage_. He’s trying.

 

This is something he wants to remember, the look in Anne’s eyes when she looks at him and then _looks_ at him. When she takes in all that he shows, or all that he hopes to show anyway. How she sighs softly and her shoulders relax, how she looks like she’s about to welcome her son home. It’s an odd thought, he knows, one that makes everything else that has been in his head lately sound petty and irrelevant. Still it’s what he’s thinking about when he takes steps towards her, all firm and decided.

 

“Do you have maybe five?”

 

She nods, her hand flat on his small back to guide him to the cafeteria. Ashton lets her lead the way, show him around like he hasn’t had lunch or dinner or a midnight snack in that cafeteria about a thousand times before. It feels a little like when he was young and clueless and didn’t know better, his Mum guiding him through every corridor with walls that looked too tall and bright, adults passing him by that didn’t care at all.

 

It’s a silent journey of maybe two minutes, fast but seemingly infinite, and then they’re sitting across from each other in a tiny table, Anne with her arms crossed over the table, looking at him with raised eyebrows, no doubt trying her best to look approachable but still looking intimidating. Ashton smiles softly, looking away.

 

“I’m sorry I was such jerk to you about Harry’s game,” he says, and she parts her lips to interrupt him, but Ashton doesn’t let her. “I mean it, Mum. It wasn’t right, and I knew it wasn’t right when I said it, but I was scared, and I guess when I’m scared I have this thing: I take all the wrong turns and then I’m stuck somewhere new I never wanted to be, and I don’t know how to come back.” He pauses, and this time she lets him talk, tries to keep eye-contact, keeps her eyes on him even when he stares at his hands on the table instead. “When I found out Luke had an infection, all I could think about was that it was me. I was probably the reason why. I hadn’t washed my hands properly enough. I was dirty. I brought this in and now maybe I killed him—look, I have to tell you this, I touched his hand. I touched his hand, and now he might die because of that.”

 

Anne reaches for her son’s hand across the table, squeezes it too hard until he’s looking at her. “Ashton, this is your defense mechanism being afraid of losing him. Think about this rationally. You know you didn’t do anything wrong. You’ve done nothing but show devotion to this boy. How could that hurt?”

 

Ashton blinks a couple of times, feels a lazy embarrassed smile take over. “What? I wouldn’t go as far as say _devotion_ ,” he rolls his eyes, looking away, but he’s still holding Anne’s hand as if his life depends on it. “Besides the point. You may be right. Hell, you probably are. But even if I was scared out of my mind, it still doesn’t justify what I said. I shouldn’t have brought that man into that. I shouldn’t have made you feel bad. It was on purpose, and I’m so sorry for that. I can’t keep hurting people around me just because I’m afraid of the voices in my head.”

 

She raises her eyebrows high, shakes her head slowly and squeezes his hand again, her other hand also reaching to cover his hand completely in hers. “It’s okay, baby. I accept your apology. Alright? It’s okay.”

 

“It isn’t, though,” Ashton says, frowns a little, stares at his hand between his mother’s and blinks a couple of times. “You can’t just forgive me. I said something horrible. I was too ashamed to even look at you for days.”

 

Anne’s quiet for a couple of seconds, enough that Ashton looks up at her again, expecting something sad or something angry. But he gets neither. He gets confused, concerned, something in between or everything at once. Anne doesn’t let go of his hands, not yet, but she parts her lips like she’s considering her words carefully, like she doesn’t know how to handle this any better than he does. And he knows it’s too much to expect from Anne, that she could heal all that is wrong with his head, knows she’s good but she’s not _that_ good. He knows what all the therapists have said, that people can help but they can’t do anything to change who you are. That’s your job.

 

That’s his job, and he’s screwing it.

 

“Listen to me,” she says, after a while, breathing out heavily. “You have got to learn how to forgive yourself, son, because I have. The only thing that makes me sadder than you not speaking to me, is you holding grudges against yourself, hating on the mirror.”

 

Ashton blinks a couple of times, stares at her, not quite knowing where to go from there. He parts his lips, and she waits, but still no sound comes, nothing at all, nothing to say or do.

 

“If you want to wait around a little, the ICU is ready for visiting hours in about an hour. You’d have to wait for his family to come and go, but if you’re willing to wait,” she lets go of his hand, shrugs.

 

He presses his lips together, feels his heart beat faster. “Does this mean he’s getting better?”

 

“It’s a bacterial infection. He’ll be on antibiotics for another week. But he’s responding well enough that Dr Jing has allowed visitors again—she only prohibited those temporarily because he’s in the ICU. Room patients still get visitors even when they have infections. What I’m saying is: we’re monitoring him closely, love.”

 

Ashton nods, in his head already making plans of calling Michael or Calum or Ashley or whoever will have him first, texting Lauren to see whether she managed to ask the boy she’s in love with out. But there’s one thing he needs to know first, before he lets Anne go back to work, before he asks for some Coke and a sandwich and kills time before it kills him.

 

“Why are you encouraging me to keep seeing Luke, though? Aren’t you afraid he’s going to die and then I’ll be even worse?”

 

Giving him a funny look like he might as well have told a joke, she tilts her head to the side. “Worse? You’re not doing bad, Ash. You’re finding your way. I think seeing him is helping you, and maybe it’s helping him, too.”

 

#

 

Michael doesn’t answer his phone but Calum does. He answers half-asleep, complaining about having been woken up, calls Ashton the jerkiest of all jerks, says he’s the worst and Calum is holding this against him forever. Still he laughs when Ashton calls him a cry-baby, and they spend at least twenty minutes on the phone, Calum watching puppy videos on YouTube while Ashton watches people come and go in the hospital cafeteria.

 

At one point, Ashton asks, “Have you still not moved?”

 

Calum laughs. “Not at all. Still in bed, haven’t even picked the sheet I kicked to the floor. I don’t plan on moving before strictly necessary. Dinner, namely.” Ashton can hear the smile on his voice, and then he probably pauses the videos on his laptop, because the background noise ceases, and Calum asks, “Where are you, anyway?”

 

And because he’s tired of lying, he sighs softly and says, “The hospital cafeteria.”

 

“Is everything alright?” he asks, his voice even and kicking out tiredness. “Did you just go to pay your Mum a visit or something?”

 

Ashton runs his hand over his head, a small smile on his lips. “Or something,” he replies, and Calum doesn’t ask any further questions, so he doesn’t feel like he needs to lie at all.

 

Still Calum indulges him in pointless conversation for a little longer, until Ashton sighs and says he has to go, for no other reason than he feels like he’s getting tired and Calum’s almost sleeping on the other end. He texts Ashley and Lauren for some time, but Ashley’s having dinner with her father and Lauren is also texting her to-be-boyfriend, so.

 

When eventually it’s visiting time for the ICU, he goes near it, feels ridiculous sitting on the waiting room raising his eyebrows to everyone who leaves, hoping to see Mrs Hemmings and her family, leaving Luke so he can go see him. It doesn’t take long for him to recognize her, walking hand-in-hand with an older version of Luke, taller and older.

 

“C’mere, Ben,” she says, walking out of the ICU with him. The man, older than Ashton by a couple of years probably, raises his eyebrows at her in expectation. “I’m not feeling so good, I’m going to get some water, yeah? You tell your Dad and Jack they can go see Luke.”

 

Ben agrees, says something in a quieter tone before kissing her cheek and leaving in Ashton’s general direction, to two men in the waiting room sitting in the back. Ashton feels his face grow hot as Ben passes him, but he never stops.

 

And he doesn’t know what is it that drives him, that makes him stand up after Ben goes talk to the other two men. What he knows is that before he even realizes what he’s doing, he’s heading to the cafeteria as well, hands shaking but steps firm and decided like they were before.

 

He’s a couple of minutes delayed, by the time he gets there, Mrs Hemmings is already sipping on a bottle of sparkle water.

 

She sits close to the window, not very far from where Ashton was before. He holds his breath, watches her for a second as she looks out the window, and his hands are shaking too hard. He wants to come and sit down across from her, ask what’s on her mind and whether she remembers her worst math student. He wants to ask if she’s been crying at night or if she’s as much of a strong believer Luke will be alright as he is. He wants to ask if she’s angry at him for seeing her unconscious son in secret or if she’s okay with it like Anne is.

 

Ashton just wants to talk about Luke with someone who loves the boy, who’ll understand that it isn’t devotion, no, it’s curiosity and desperation for life to thrive. But he’s too nervous and she’s too endorsed in looking out the window at something that is most definitely more interesting than a young adult with no clue of what being an adult actually stands for.

 

So he turns around and goes back to the waiting room.

 

#

 

There’s stillness in his head as he walks past all the sick people he never cares to register the faces of. Then suddenly, he’s thinking of how many of these people—who can all afford the luxury of keeping their eyes open and interacting with their loved ones—have caught infections, how many of them were bacterial, and whether they were responsive to the antibiotics as well or if they’re just dying. He’s also thinking that it could have been anyone or anything, from an incompetent intern who didn’t do what they were supposed to, to maybe even nurses or doctors. It could have been Luke’s family, too, for all he knows. It could have been none of the above, just dumb lack of luck.

 

Thing is, he tells himself it wasn’t him, and he needs to keep that thought going for long enough that when he gets to Luke’s bed, he doesn’t turn and leave. So he does just that, keeps the words in his head like a mantra: not my fault, not my fault, not my fault.

 

And when he sees Luke, he doesn’t need these words at all.

 

“Hey there,” he says, a shy smile coming to his lips. He takes tentative steps in his direction until he’s beside him, nervous hand tapping on the bed sheet, right next to where Luke’s hand is resting, but still not touching. “Gave me a scare the other day. I hope you’re not feeling too bad. You get fevers and stuff, right? I hope you—hope you don’t feel too bad about those. They suck.”

 

He tilts his head to the side a little, lets the smile sink in for no one specific, because Luke’s eyes are still closed and he’s still unmoving, save for his chest going up and down very softly. The EKG machine reassures him when he looks up, though. Still alive, steadily, wonderfully, miraculously alive. A bullet to the head and still alive.

 

“Last time I came here I said I was a jerk to mum. You should know things are okay between us now, or at least they’re on their way to be okay,” he shrugs, looking at Luke’s closed eyelids. “I saw your Mum. I almost talked to her. I don’t know—I wish I had talked to her. Wish I could have just had the guts to sit across from her, tell her I have a complicated relationship with God, but whenever I remember to pray, there you are, in all my conversations with Him.”

 

On the tapping nervously, his thumb brushes Luke’s finger by accident, and he looks at his hand, holds his breath like he’s never noticed it was there. Ashton swallows dryly, takes Luke’s hand into his both unceremoniously, holds his hand like he never wants to let go.

 

“Listen—I’m trying really hard. To forgive myself, that is. She told me to—my Mum, my Mum told me to—forgive myself, and that’s for everything. That’s for thinking I should save everyone. That’s for feeling crushing guilt that I can’t. That’s for having cut my wrists a year ago. I didn’t even want to die, see, I just wanted to make sure I still felt something. How screwed up is that?” he pauses, closes his eyes, inhales on the weird hospital smell and ignores that his eyes fill with tears, keeps them closed so none of them fall. “I don’t want to be that person, I don’t—look, look, I don’t know why I’m so nervous today,” he chuckles, squeezes Luke’s hands maybe too hard, “I just have this sinking feeling that my being here might be affecting you negatively, and I wouldn’t wa—”

 

Just like with the bullet, Michael looking him in the eye and telling him to not look away, with the sounds that were burned into him like images, like the scars tattooed across his wrists, time slows down. It must, because he can still feel his crushed chest and his vision blurry, and his hands are still holding too tight, but the thing is: Luke is holding back.

 

Or not really, not exactly, but something happens either way. Luke’s hand moves against his, a soft caress of his thumb across the back of Ashton’s palm, and then he’s gone, paralyzed and unblinking, staring at Luke, not knowing what to do with his hands or his body or himself.

 

His hand still trapped between Ashton’s, Luke hums softly, turns his head to the side very slightly, as if avoiding all the bright lights, as a hangover teenager on a Sunday morning, pissed at the curtains wide open, letting all the sun in. Like he doesn’t want the sun in. Like he gets to choose what happens at all. Like he’s conscious.

 

And Ashton’s heart, his heart is a mess. It stops beating, he’s sure of it, and then it starts beating too fast and too much, about to break his ribcage, break free of this erroneous body who makes all the wrong choices until one little thing starts feeling right. His breath shaken, he lets go of Luke’s hand, takes a step back, and stares at him for a second.

 

Luke hums again, frowns but keeps his eyes closed.

 

Ashton’s lips quiver, and his hands start shaking.

 

He knows it’s visiting hours, the ICU full of friends and families, the patients tired but trying their best to keep awake to talk to their loved ones. He doesn’t care in the slightest. He blinks a couple of times still, takes another couple of steps backwards, and then he’s yelling at the top of his lungs: “He woke up. He woke up from his fucking coma! Someone do something!”

 

It’s enough to get people’s attention. Interns start running, people page people, and Dr Ponzio is the first familiar face he sees running his way, ignoring him altogether to check on Luke, and when he feels hands on his shoulders pushing him back, he barely registers. Dr Jing doesn’t take long to come, too, and soon someone’s talking about calling the family, and there are at least three doctors around Luke Hemmings. Anne is practically dragging him away, but he keeps looking over his shoulder, staring at the hospital bed with the waking boy lying there. Ashton doesn’t hear what Anne says, doesn’t care either way, his chest is going up and down erratically, and he’s struggling to break free from his mother’s arms.

 

He’s halfway across the ICU already, Anne’s annoyed, “Ashton,” in a warning tone registering at last, but his eyes are still on Luke. And through the mess of people looking and talking, he swears that for a second, Luke’s eyes are on him, too.

 

#


	4. Chapter 4

Anne has to go back to work, obviously, barely gives him any time to adjust to the news before she’s shipping him off to the janitor, who won’t know how to deal with the situation, won’t know what to say or what this means for him.

 

Ashton doesn’t know what this means for him.

 

“You alright, kid? You’re a little pale,” the man says, putting a hand tentatively on his shoulder and squeezing too hard. Ashton must wince, because the janitor retrieves his hand immediately. “I’m sorry. I thought maybe you needed reassurance.”

 

And Ashton laughs, because: “I thought all I needed was for him to wake up, but now that he has, what if he hates me? What if he hates the fact that I was even there to start with?”

 

But the janitor doesn’t know about what-ifs. He just knows about nodding and looking like he understands when he has no fucking clue. It’s not enough, and he knows he should call someone and leave, but his legs are nervous and he can’t stop going round and round in circles in the hospital parking lot, just to have something to do with himself. He’s sitting by the bench, watching the janitor sweep leaves off the ground and go on about a story of when he was Ashton’s age and fell in love with a girl who worked in a drugstore, when he sees Mr and Mrs Hemmings come back to the hospital, park their car not ten feet away from him, their two older sons in the backseat, looking nervous, one of them like he might be sick and throw up at any minute.

 

Ashton holds his breath, thinks they’re going to recognize him. But even if they had, Ashton could have been there in the hospital during ICU visiting hours for any number of reasons, for any number of patients. He’s noticed so many people who come and go in the same time that he does, and not once it had occurred to him they could be there to sneak into the ICU to see someone else’s dear friend.

 

When they’re all inside the hospital, he says his goodbye to the janitor, and walks back home. His heart is in turmoil, his head is dizzy, but mostly he ignores the nagging feeling that this could mean the end of the line for him, and he focuses on all the rest: on Luke Hemmings being alive, on Luke Hemmings opening his eyes.

 

He goes to Michael’s.

 

Michael answers the door with a lazy smile, one hand on the doorknob, the other holding a can of Coke, but it takes one look at Ashton, breath uneven and frowning, for the smile to die down. He takes another sip of his Coke, opens the door properly, says, “C’mon, just go upstairs, Dad’s in the kitchen, he won’t even see you.”

 

By the time Michael follows him to the bedroom, Ashton’s already kicked off his shoes and is lying on Michael’s bed, face down and both arms around his pillow. Michael clicks the door closed, grabs his chair from in front of the computer and drags it to in front of the bed. He throws one of his legs over it, sitting and embracing the back of the chair. For a second, he just looks at Ashton with raised eyebrows, and when Ashton finally meets his eyes, it comes: everything.

 

“I’ve been visiting Luke Hemmings over the past weeks. Almost every day since the shooting. I was afraid of telling you all because you might have judged me, but also because you might have wanted to come along, and I needed this to be my thing for a while. I was finally talking, and I hadn’t talked for so long. It may have been because he was in a coma, but I just felt so comfortable next to him. I used to daydream about him waking up, Mike, I used to think about it all the fucking time. And now I’m scared out of my mind again. I keep thinking he’ll hate me, think I’m a freak for having visited for so long,tell his parents to forbid me from ever going there again, and I’ll feel the worst. Because it is weird to visit a stranger, isn’t it? It’s weird and I’m weird and this isn’t right. It isn’t right, Mike, and now I don’t even get to say I’m sorry he was shot and had a pleural effusion, because he won’t want to talk to me.”

 

The stream of truths feels unusual and maybe it’s that or how fast he was coming to Michael’s place, but still he feels like his head is going round and round and he might be sick any minute. He pulls the pillow tighter against his chest until his hands meet his arms and he sighs, letting his face bury on the pillow, closing his eyes and breathing out slowly. It feels like coming clean after a crime, and by then, he’d expect any number of reactions from Michael. He’d expected him to judge him same as he’s been judging himself, or maybe just ask the weirdest questions about Luke he wouldn’t know how to answer, like what was his first thought when he woke up, or whether he remembers anything from when his eyes were closed.

 

Instead, after a moment, what Michael says is, very quietly, “I have no idea what a pleural infusion is.”

 

Ashton raises his head. “Effusion. It’s pleural effusion.”

 

And he half-smiles, because Michael is offering him an honest-to-God confused expression, and he supposes he could use some of that, some of mindless confusion to go with his fears. He turns so he’s on his back and facing the ceiling, stainless and bright white. He breathes out heavily, and Michael makes a tsk-tsk-tsk sound.

 

“Do you think he’ll hate me for going there?” he asks, his voice small like he feels.

 

The thing about Michael is that he and Lauren have so much in common, that maybe this was why Ashton felt so much fondness for Michael from the start. They’re both easily excitable and they would both go through great lengths to prove how much they love someone, from staying up late when they really need to sleep, from watching someone take a bullet just so someone else doesn’t have to live with the memory of that scene.

 

Like Lauren, he values honesty. Sometimes he still lies, already corrupted by the forces of social obligations that Lauren hasn’t been exposed to yet, but overall, he tries to go for the truth.

 

When Ashton turns once more and looks at Michael, he shrugs.

 

“No clue. You should ask him.”

 

Ashton just stares back at Michael for a moment, because he can’t believe that’s all he’s going to get, and also because he needs to know if Michael is serious. But he is, dead-serious, eyebrows raised and blinking slowly.

 

“I can’t just—you don’t think I could.”

 

Michael chuckles, smiles at him. “You can, if you want to. Do you want to?”

 

He presses his lips together, can’t think of a single thing to say.

 

On the one hand, it’s a very specific, yes-no type of question. On the other, it’s nothing like that. Every alternative means so much, and he’s not ready to go there yet, is he? If he was, he wouldn’t be lying on his friend’s bed, staring at him, wide-eyed and scared of things that aren’t even plausible. Because his biggest fear was that Luke would die, and he’s alive, and he’s awake, so why does he feel like his bones are so breakable and his skin is an odd jumpsuit a size too small?

 

Michael sighs softly, looks away for a moment.

 

“I think you should see him as soon as you can, Ash. Give him the night to get used to it; his family is probably there, right? Tomorrow you can go there. I’ll come with you if you prefer, but I don’t think you do. You’d rather do this alone, wouldn’t you? Say hi and introduce yourself, and say whatever’s true to you at the moment. He’ll appreciate it. I would.”

 

For a second, quietness falls over them. Ashton doesn’t say he will or he won’t, doesn’t say thank you for having him there unannounced or for giving him advice for problems he didn’t know existed. All he does is breathe in and out and try to find a rhythm that feels good and relaxing, and then his eyes fall to the bed again, and he’s blinking a couple of times.

 

“I’m sorry for not sharing.”

 

Michael shakes his head, stands up from the chair, puts it aside. “You don’t have to apologize for keeping something to yourself. I’m glad you trusted me with it, though. I’m sure Calum and Ashley won’t make a big deal of it when you decide to tell them, either.” He pauses, standing there in the middle of his bedroom. “Why don’t you call Lauren and Harry, invite them to come over for dinner? Dad’s supposedly cooking something good. Supposedly. Don’t hold that against me.”

 

Ashton sits back on the bed, gets his phone from the pocket of his jeans, doesn’t even question it when Michael leaves the room to let his father know to cook for more people. When he asks Lauren, she says sure, they can walk there, it’s close and she needs some time off her books anyway.

 

He’s breathing normally, demons in his chest hushed.

 

#

 

The bizarre thing is how the world doesn’t just end the next day.

 

He wakes up and makes pancakes for breakfast, and Harry complains that they taste weird and Lauren has a silly argument with him over taking too long in the shower, and Anne kisses the top of his head on the way out and rushes Harry and Lauren or else they’d lose their ride to school. He watches TV and texts nonsense with both Michael and Calum when in fact they should be studying, and when it’s midday he has lunch by himself, listening to songs he doesn’t usually listen to, like The Paper Kites, Gabrielle Aplin, and Augustana. They are mostly recommendations from Ashley, mostly things that calm him down and make him look at things differently while pretending not to look at them at all.

 

It’s time for his shift and the world still hasn’t collapsed in itself, still no one’s ran to him scared seeking for help, and still he hasn’t done the same. He feels weirdly at peace in his nervousness, biting down on his bottom lip every now and then, Ashley giving him a curious look but asking no questions. Three times she starts conversation that goes nowhere, but he barely indulges, just smiling along to be polite, humming sad songs under his breath when no one’s paying attention, or so he thinks.

 

When eventually Ashley catches him singing Snow Patrol, she raises her eyebrows, bumps her shoulder against his, and as her long dark hair falls over her face, she gives him a defiant look, and as if it’s something to attack him, she says, “I’m thinking of dying my hair pink.”

 

Ashton half-smiles. “That’s a nice idea. Not sure how our boss will feel about it, but I suppose it’d be rude to fire you when you’re so nice to all our customers.”

 

She rests her weight against the romance section. “I only flipped that guy off because he was looking at my,” she gestures, “general chest area.”

 

Shaking his head, he laughs a bit, and she gives him a smile that doesn’t really convey what a smile means to. Like she knows him well enough to know that something’s up in that messy head of his. And he knows her just well enough to know this is her best efforts, saying whatever to herself if he doesn’t bring it up, just trying to distract him at all costs instead. But what she needs to know is that he isn’t sad. He isn’t sad at all. He’s a bit melancholic, sure, he’s afraid the guy he’s been seeing almost every day for about a month will hate him or just not like him, and the indifference could be worse than hate.

 

But he isn’t sad. Because he knows that no matter what, now Luke will be okay. He’s awake, and he’ll be happy, too. That’s what Ashton wanted the most, what he felt the world owned him.

 

After a pause, he says: “I think you should dye your hair pink. You’ve been talking about it since last summer. Do you what you feel is right, definitely.”

 

And because this is Ashley and she couldn’t let it go, not even if she doesn’t really know what this is about, she still shoots him a dubious look, raising her eyebrows. Before she leaves back to the counter, she says, “As long as you do, too.”

 

#

 

But the thing is, nothing really changes.

 

He goes home instead of to the hospital, plays videogames with Harry for about half hour before he gets bored, goes upstairs, listens to more music, and he doesn’t feel sad at all. He feels strange, like someone’s emptied him of all electricity and power and everything that makes him move.

 

It’s still not sadness. It’s still nothing like that.

 

Lauren knocks on his door, asks if he can help her with trigonometry.

 

Of course he says he can, sits beside her and pretends to know trigonometry enough to help her through it, even though he struggles twice as much as she does. He keeps thinking that Mrs Hemmings could have helped Lauren with that. He keeps meaning to ask her if she was Lauren’s teacher at all. But he doesn’t, obviously, just stays with her until she gives him a smirk and says, “I have a different idea. Why don’t you go and watch some TV downstairs and when I’m done you can reward me for doing my homework with kicking Harry out of the living room so I can watch Grey’s Anatomy?”

 

And when it’s time, they all have dinner together.

 

He notices his phone ringing, but he ignores it.

 

When he goes to bed, all he’s thinking is that he’s made it. He’s gone the whole day without mentioning Luke to anyone, thinking as little as possible of what it was like, being awake for the first time after so long, having so many questions and confusion your head hurts, or maybe that’s just the wound, or maybe there’s no pain and it’s all in the head of the strange boy who came by to visit a couple of times.

 

What a thing to go through, but Ashton thinks, absentmindedly and feeling his chest heavy for a moment, now it’s over.

 

#

 

“Did you have a good night of sleep?”

 

Ashton blinks a couple of times, feels like he’s waking up from the worst hangover he’s yet to come, even if he went to bed early and didn’t drink at all. He sits up straight a bit too quick, a pounding in his head and his vision still blurry from sleepiness. He still makes out the silhouette of Anne against his window, snapping them open abruptly, even if her tone was still sweet.

 

He grabs his phone on the nightstand. Still way too early for work, but he definitely missed making breakfast for Lauren and Harry, or even rushing Harry out of the bathroom, which has more or less been another one of his morning duties over the past couple of weeks.

 

“Sorry, I overslept,” he sighs, covering his face with both hands and yawning into them. “Had a horrible night, actually. But thanks for asking. And waking me up.”

 

Constant stream of nightmares. Nothing made sense. Not a single thing to complain about, not a single thing to recall haunting him, but still it makes him sick to think of it.

 

Anne turns to him, walks to his bed slowly and tentatively. It takes him a moment to look her in the eye, mostly because he recognizes that hesitance in her steps, knows it can’t be something that will make today easy for him. It’s silly, how he still lets himself sigh or laugh or something in between, and then she sits by the end of his bed, and he looks at her and she looks at him, and that thing goes between them, the acknowledgment and understanding and he doesn’t know what of.

 

“I called you last night. I thought you’d be at the hospital, but you weren’t.”

 

Ashton feels his throat dry, or maybe closing in. It’s none of that, he knows, but still it feels odd, forcing saliva down like it’s lava, feeling it burn down his throat like it might leave permanent scars. He lowers his eyes—such absurd thoughts.

 

“I couldn’t think of a single reason why I should go.”

 

He looks back at her like he expects her to prove him wrong, and he shouldn’t doubt her, as a mother, in her ability to prove her children wrong. It’s what parents are best at, and if he can’t count on his father to, then sure as hell she’ll take every single opportunity in the world and prove him wrong. Anne has an odd look on her face when she meets his eyes, a soft sigh that she gives up on in the middle, presses her lips for a moment instead.

 

“He asked about you.”

 

And he’s still not really awake, because he thinks he’s hearing Anne talk to him about things that can’t possibly be true, but still he lowers his head once more and blinks a couple of times, brows furrowing and lips parting. It doesn’t make any sense, and he doesn’t want to let himself go there, because if he does, then—

 

Then look at this. Then it’s a mess already made.

 

It’s his lungs filling up with hope, toxicity leaving his body for something purer and better and newer, his skin getting brighter every single millisecond he refuses to lock eyes with Anne again so soon. It’s his breath catching and his hands suddenly too idle, fidgeting with where the sheets meet his body.

 

Ashton looks at Anne, and he’s holding his breath. “Luke? Luke asked about me?”

 

She nods slowly, looking more concerned than happy, more worried than relieved. “At first he couldn’t speak at all, Dr Jing thinks more due to shock than brain damage, because a couple of hours later, he was talking to Walker. Slowly, but he was. And I don’t know what he asked Walker and what Walker answered, but when I came to check his temperature later, he asked me where my son was.”

 

Her cautious way with words would normally leave him speechless, but not like this, like this it’s just the right amount so he doesn’t trip over his own words and thoughts. This gives him just enough to think about without speaking over what she says. This gives him what he needs so he can say:

 

“He saw me, Mum, when he woke up. I’m sure he—Luke saw me. He must have asked Nurse Walker about me, and he said I was your son. Must have been that, right? He did see me when he woke up, and then he asked. That’s it. He saw me, Mum, he did.”

 

His traitorous body is probably betraying him again, mouth smiling in spite of himself, not being able to hold back on whatever it is that’s happening inside him, because Anne nods slowly, puts a hand on his arm as if to stop him. As if to say: Ashton, back to Earth. Ashton, calm down. Ashton, here, here. Ashton, don’t jump to conclusions on your own. Here, have the whole story first, then you can be the judge. Here, have the devastating tiny details that will be on your mind for the rest of the day until the end of your shift. Here, have it all, because it’s been bugging me and I can’t deal with it on my own, so I was hoping you’d shed some light into this.

 

She says: “But, love, he knew your name.”

 

#

 

Memory is a funny thing, ironically selective to the point of cruelty.

 

Ashton doesn’t remember what his father looks like, not really. If he sees a picture, he knows it’s him, but if he saw him on the street, then maybe not, maybe he’d frown and stare for a while, but confuse him for someone he saw on the bus earlier and he didn’t give up his seat for. Still he remembers painfully vividly how Ashley sat across from him one day in their sixth year, at the time madly in love with a boy two years older who barely knew she existed, and she said, “You know you’re in love when it’s strong like this. When he could lose all the hair in his head and you’d still like him just the same.” At the time he’d given her a long look, like she was the most random friend he could have found, but said nothing, just nodded along, because _okay_ , he couldn’t think of any girls he’d still be into if they had lost all their hair. Not even boys, which at the time, was already something that was more or less on his mind, even if he didn’t want it to be. So he’d just figured he didn’t know what being in love was like.

 

He remembers that, and he remembers also this other time, when Anne was atypically drunk, sitting by their porch with a friend from the hospital whose face became a blur, and she said, as happy as one could be, “You know what, I’ll never in my life mix wine and beer again.” He’d learned not to do it, either, never did, but still it wasn’t as powerful as the memory he never meant to forget, of what it felt like to play football with his father outside, back when Anne was pregnant of Harry and Lauren didn’t care much for spending time with him. He knows it happened because Anne told him, said it was their thing, but Ashton can’t for the life of him remember it.

 

So he knows it might be there in his head somewhere, hidden in the dirty drawers of his brain, tucked away so less relevant memories can surface. Like this morning, after talking to Anne, when he was in the shower, he suddenly remembered he never returned to Michael’s cousin a book he borrowed years ago, about life in other planets. Just like that, he hopes it’ll come to him sometime.

 

Still now, after telling Ashley everything about his visits to Luke, when she raised her eyebrows and asked, “But do you not remember him?” he’s clueless, staring at her with his lips parted, no sound coming at all.

 

They shouldn’t be talking about this in the video rental shop, because they’ve literally just had a customer scowl at them for lack of assistance when the guy asked if they knew what was the name of that movie again, the one with the guy from _The Hobbit_ , the one he was sure was from the ‘90s? But he was too nervous and fidgeting with the hem of his shirt so much it made Ashley sigh and roll her eyes and point at beside her, which was her way of summoning him, and it always fucking worked, especially in days like these, in which he’d do anything for a bit of peace of mind.

 

He hadn’t meant to sound excited when he told her about it, because there is nothing to be excited about. But he must have, if Ashley gives him a long look before asking it, and then she crosses her arms slowly, tentative and cautious, much like Anne was looking this morning. Like they’re all walking on eggs.

 

He appreciates the small things, though, like Michael focusing on the disease he can’t pronounce properly and Ashley ignoring everything he’s been doing lately to focus on whether Ashton remembers Luke or not.

 

Half grateful for friendly courtesy or distraction or whatever it is, half holding his breath in anticipation, he asks, “You mean, if I remember him from the night at the party? That’s what you mean?”

 

Ashley rolls her eyes, impatient and biting on her bottom lip. “Ash, Ash, Ash,” she says, repeats his name three times as if to punctuate her distress. She taps her fingers against the counter also three times, and the customer in the action section raises his head at her, but as he’s ignored, the guy quickly goes back to the DVDs unorganized in front of him. “Why do you think I was so shaken after it happened? He was just a kid, and I thought he was dead. I knew we didn’t know-know him, but I thought you remembered.”

 

First of all—he wants to say: _first of all_ , with raised eyebrows and crossed arms—how does her humming along tragedy even qualify as being _so_ shaken? But he doesn’t say that. It’d be unfair and cruel and he wants to think he’s past that, even if it’s still his first impulse. So he doesn’t cross his arms or raise his eyebrows. He licks his lips and looks away from Ashley for a second, taking a deep breath, because he remembers what Calum said that day at Michael’s house way too vividly, but he’s not ready to hear it again. Not so soon.

 

“He was from our school, the boy,” she says after a moment, and when Ashton looks at her, she’s tapping her fingers against the counter again, less nails and more fingertips, like she wants to stop, but can’t, so she chooses to be quiet instead. “I remember in senior year—” she stops herself midsentence.

 

Ashley does that sometimes, so it still takes him a moment to look behind his shoulder and at what stopped her in the first place. The customer from before is holding three DVD boxes, scowling again, and though he’s sure Ashley’s face is enough of indication she’d rather tell him to leave, she still sighs heavily and forces a polite smile that looks anything but.

 

“Good afternoon, sir,” she says, then sinks her teeth down her bottom lip.

 

Like waiting for his turn, he stands next to the man, looking at her in expectance. And he isn’t really sure what he’s expecting to hear, but it still catches him off guard when she asks the man for just a minute, holds his arm, and bending over the counter so she can whisper in his hear, she says:

 

“Get your things and leave. See him. I’ll tell boss you felt horribly ill and nearly fainted. Just fucking go.”

 

And he doesn’t wait for her to change her mind or fill him in with more details on how he needs to do that immediately. He just does as told, heart beating fast and loud enough to wake the dead, hands shaking a bit, curled into fists so he can hide it.

 

#

 

His feet won’t pedal fast enough, and his heart doesn’t seem to catch up with his urgency, with the way his eyes fall onto everybody he passes and at the same time, he’s focused in looking ahead, slight frown and lips pressed together.

 

He’s about three blocks away from the hospital when he starts thinking of turning around and coming back. It was such an amateur act of childish impatience, to take off and leave like that, before he could hear what is it that Ashley knows and he doesn’t, what small piece of Luke Hemmings that she kept to herself and away from him.

 

But it’d be even worse to come back now. Now that he’s breathing a bit unevenly and pedalling as hard as his legs will let him, staring dead ahead to the tall hospital buildings coming together instead of the people around him.

 

Two blocks now.

 

His imagination doesn’t even get the best of him. Maybe if it was Calum, then maybe he’d have at least ten different scenarios unfolding in front of him, but all Ashton has is nervous legs and shaking fingers, and an absentminded wish to call Calum and ask what he would do, if he’d take the leap and jump or if he’d stay behind and think things through first. But that’d be just gaining time. He knows exactly what Calum would do, or Michael, or Ashley, and everyone he knows.

 

One block now.

 

There isn’t a single person he knows who wouldn’t keep going.

 

So he keeps going.

 

He stops his bike too soon, nearly loses balance and falls off, the still moving pedal hitting his calf in the process of stopping. He bites his lip, looks around for the janitor in the parking lot, but he’s nowhere to be seen, either, so this is it, no more stops, at least not as many as he’d like, not enough that he’d run into someone who could tell him to slow the fuck down and think about what he’s doing, what he’ll say when he sees him, what and how and when and _now?_

 

The receptionist barely looks him in the face when he introduces himself and asks about what are the next ICU visiting hours. He knows there are two rounds, one early in the evening, one early in the afternoon, but he doesn’t remember the exact time, and if it isn’t about now, if it isn’t, then, well, he’ll break into the hospital, do something crazy, pretend to be sick bad enough they’ll let him in.

 

The woman pulls her hair up into a lazy bun, nodding without saying a word, eyes on the computer screen in front of her. He chews on his bottom lip, holding his breath.

 

“Alright, but visiting hours is almost over, so make it quick,” she finally looks at him, gives him a small smile out of politeness, and he’s in.

 

He’s in, and it feels like he’s breaking someone out of prison, more likely to be himself than Luke. It feels like something extraordinary, walking the same steps he’s walked a thousand times before, thanking God or whoever’s watching over him for the tiny miracles, like being on time for visiting hours and Luke being awake. And something, something in the middle, something he missed but still happened.

 

Ashton passes the same sick people he’s never really looked at before, but today he allows himself that. He looks at them and at their pained expressions, sometimes their faces so bored there’s no room for pain. He sees an old overweight lady talking to Dr Ponzio, and they’re both laughing together, and Ashton wonders if Luke’s like that, too, laughing with his doctors, taking it all as some big joke, or laughing at his cruel fate, or if it’s not that at all, just a resigned smile on his best days.

 

He wishes he knew that kind of thing. Instead all he knows is how to get to his hospital bed, passing the perpetually closed curtains of someone who’s either too ill or too moody or never has any company.

 

And before, what bothered him the most was precisely how the world kept spinning on without his permission. It was always what made him wince in reflex, how no matter what screwed up mess you got yourself in, the world would keep moving, and people would move on with their lives, and you had to struggle to catch up, or you’d be left behind. But right now, that’s not it at all. Right now, he swears the world indulges him in his little fantasies, slows down for one fucking moment, his heavy steps approaching and his lips pressed together so he keeps himself from speaking too soon.

 

Luke, lying in bed, baby blue eyes open but looking sleepy, arms by his sides as it’s always been, but one hand slightly raised, fingers moving tentatively, eyes focused on his own fingers like he’s hypnotized. And Ashton could be—hypnotized, that is, for the slow and cautious movements, like a new-born who’s not used to all the space around him yet—but he’s got a purpose and people with purpose can break even the most beautiful moments of self-discovery.

 

People with purpose can become ruthless with these things, those purposes of them. Ashton feels the walls closing in on him as he takes the next steps, but still Luke doesn’t look away from his hand, and he needs him to, so a little awkwardly, he says:

 

“Hey.”

 

And because Luke looks up at him with alarmed eyes of someone who’s been caught doing something inexcusable, Ashton wants to smile. He wants to smile so badly at this that in his head he does, and that’s how he’ll remember this. But his muscles are too tense and they’re sore, too, like his heart, so all he does is to sigh softly, locking eyes with Luke.

 

“I am—” he starts, then pauses. Luke clears his throat, frowns a little, looks away as if embarrassed of how husky and older his voice sounds. “I am… a bit… drugged, I think?” he sighs heavily, tilts his head to the side, something close to a smile coming to his lips, but not quite. “But you are Ashton, aren’t you?”

 

Ashton knows he’s ridiculous to feel like he might cry at any minute now, but it’s so overwhelming. It’s like his crushing bones have been fixed and there’s nothing in his throat to stop him from breathing freely. It feels like the weirdest thing, to raise his eyes a tiny little bit and look at Luke, and Luke looks back at him, that beginning of a smile on his lips, and Ashton wants to say fuck it to politeness and manners, wants to start swearing, roll his eyes at everything he’s done wrong because this feels like an odd form of payback, giving him something he can’t quite name or understand, in such a big way that he still feels like something hurts.

 

He licks his lips, looking back, nodding slowly.

 

And it’s definitely like speaking is too much effort for Luke, or too much effort right now anyway, he breathes in and out too heavily and he closes his eyes to do so, like it hurts. Like everything hurts, and Ashton doesn’t think it’s fair that it does—hasn’t he been healed from the pleural effusion, from everything, or was the extubation just bullshit, the ways doctors found to say they give up on the coma kid no one was expecting to wake up? No, no, he doesn’t want to go there. He grew up with doctors around him. He trusts these people.

 

Alas, he thinks, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that speaking seems to be terrible effort, but still he focuses, breathes in slowly with his brow furrowed, and with a little chuckle, he says:

 

“Ashton Irwin.”

 

Ashton tilts his head to the side, parts his lips, but no sound comes immediately. He’s touched by something in this, and it’s not the fact that Luke knows his name to start with. It’s how his name rolls off his tongue, effortlessly after so many unimportant words. It’s how important this seems to be for him, getting Ashton’s name just right, and his heart’s drumming against his ribcage, he feels it, like any moment now it might break, like any minute now, he won’t hold the tears in his eyes anymore.

 

Nurse Walker comes closer, tentatively, “Hi, buddy,” he says to Luke, and Luke offers him a little smile. “I didn’t know you had company,” the man turns to Ashton with a polite nod. “I’ll come back later.”

 

Ashton sniffs and looks away, wipes the back of his hand against his eyes, stops the nurse with a hand on his arm. “What did you tell him about me?”

 

The man parts his lips for a second, looking from Luke to Ashton for a moment, his shoulders going up a few inches. “He asked why you were here. I said your Mum worked here, but you also came around to talk to him, tell him about your day. Nothing much.”

 

Luke doesn’t look like he’s listening. He’s got his eyes half-closed, the wrist of his right hand twisting to the side a bit tentatively, and it must send a jolt of pain through his body, because he throws his head back further into the pillow, and his lips part. Ashton stares at him for a moment, then looks back at the nurse, holding a chart and looking like he wants to leave.

 

His impulse is to feel over-exposed, humiliated. But he’s just got a few minutes before someone kicks him out of the ICU along with the other people who shouldn’t be there anymore, so he nods and Nurse Walker leaves.

 

“Are you in pain?” Ashton asks, his voice sounding strange to his own ears, as he takes a couple of steps further to his direction, stopping where he used to, his hand touching the side of the bed as if establishing a barrier, a line he won’t cross.

 

Luke ignores his question. Instead he breathes out too heavily once more, looks at him with those curious blue eyes that Ashton had only seen before in pictures, and though it didn’t look like he was listening, maybe he was, because he asks: “Tell me… about… your day?”

 

And he laughs, honest-to-God laughs, because this is so weird, doing the exact same thing he’s done so much before, but this time not praying in his head that Luke will wake up. He bites back the smile, not knowing what its purpose would be. Ashton likes to know what the purposes behind things are.

 

“Really?” he raises his eyebrows.

 

Luke just gives him the tiniest bit of smile, and looks at him.

 

Ashton wishes he could decipher these things, like what Ashley really means when she taps her hands against her thighs—nervously, so he supposes there’s that, but what she _truly_ means—or what Lauren means when she slams the door of her room—angrily, so he supposes there’s that, but what she _truly_ means. The same way, he wishes he knew what this look meant. Sure it’s expectance, encouragement for Ashton to go on and tell him something he doesn’t know.

 

But at the same time, he wonders, in a split second that he hopes won’t haunt him at night when he’s rolling in bed hoping he falls sleep already: what is it, really, behind his eyes, going on his mind on repeat in that minute, giving Ashton that look? Is he seriously okay with this, with his coming here, with the many times he’s been here before? Is he understanding or is he plain grateful? Does he even begin to grasp what it meant for Ashton to stay, what it cost him, letting go of fears of rejection that stop him from taking the first step, and actually _staying_ , coming here and talking to him and making himself known?

 

Even if technically it was Luke who asked about him. He still needs to know more about this, sit with him and ask him about what he knows about Ashton and what he remembers from school that he doesn’t. He needs to know if he remembers Ashton at his best or at his worst. If he was a spectator to his fist fight in the school patio once, when someone called him something he didn’t like for flirting with a guy from college in a school party. If he was a spectator to his carrying his teachers’ books and smiling widely and laughing at their lame jokes. What he needs to know is what side of him Luke has seen, so he can protect him against the ugly parts at all costs.

 

This feels so unnatural, watching someone with eyes closed in wounded sleep for about a month, only to find out they’ve watched you before.

 

But this is for later, because his time is limited and Luke is still looking at him like he genuinely wants to hear, and Ashton wants to give him that one thing.

 

“I slept it in a bit,” he snorts, shaking his head, and Luke smiles again. “I have a brother and a sister who still go to school, so I try to help around a bit, I make breakfast most days, except when my little brother Harry feels like cooking, then I let him, of course,” he shrugs, feeling suddenly shy of all the talking, but Luke parts his lips in expectance to hear more, his mouth still shaped into a smile. Ashton looks away from his eyes, takes a deep breath, and his fingers almost almost almost brush against Luke’s on the bed. He gives Luke’s hand a quick glance, then retrieves his own hand, tucks them into the pockets of his skinny jeans, like he’s afraid what might happen if they touch again. “Mum woke me up—Nurse Irwin, I guess is how you know her.”

 

Luke sort of shakes his head, a smug look on his face. “Anne, she said… to call her Anne.”

 

And Ashton doesn’t know why he laughs so much at this, more at how full of himself Luke looks on purpose saying this, than what he says in fact. But he laughs, shakes his head with his eyes down, feeling his cheeks burn just a bit.

 

“Anne, okay, _of course_ you are on first name basis with Mum,” he bites his bottom lip, mouth still smiling, and looks at Luke again. And Luke’s still smiling a little, so he goes on. “She—” he interrupts himself, figures mentioning how they talked about Luke would make him feel odd. “I work at a video rental shop. I was there, but then I thought, hey, you know what’s a really good idea? Going to the hospital.”

 

Luke blinks a couple of times, looking away from him. His voice is small when he says, “Glad.”

 

Ashton parts his lips to say something, anything, just because he needs to, but then Nurse Walker comes once again, offering him an apologetic smile and saying this is it, visiting hours are over.

 

Luke closes his eyes for a moment, looking close to falling asleep, maybe because of all the medication he seems to be in, but still when Ashton says, “Okay, okay, I just—” Luke blinks his eyes open, looking at him again. “Can I come again tomorrow? Later, evening visiting hours? Like, do you _mind_? Because, I mean—” he shrugs again.

 

From all things he could have done, Luke rolls his eyes. Ashton raises his eyebrows, not taking him for one to roll his eyes at an honest question like this. But then he’s biting his bottom lip looking at Ashton like that’s the silliest thing he could have possibly asked, and Luke is nodding.

 

And from all things he could have done, he supposes _waving_ goodbye isn’t the most remarkable, but still that’s what he does, Nurse Walker urging him to leave just behind him.

 

#

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again, i'd just like to honestly thank you all for the support. you have no idea how much it means to me :')  
> and hey, if you wanna hit me up at [tumblr](http://daddirwin.tumblr.com/ask) or [twitter](http://twitter.com/flowercrownau), i'm there, too.
> 
> i honestly mean it when i say this: thanks.


	5. Chapter 5

He’s vaguely aware he could have just gone home instead, but he goes back to the video rental shop. He needs the movement, pedalling fast again like he’s running to his destiny, which feels pathetic, all things considered, but his heart’s still beating so fast, and he needs needs needs to talk about this. He needs to get to the shop and talk to Ashley and hear all she has to say and then tell her that Luke doesn’t hate him. That he smiled, smiled in a way that was burned behind Ashton’s eyelids.

 

Most importantly, he can come back.

 

By the time he reaches the shop, he’s sweating and panting. There are no customers, which he’s thankful for. When the little bell by the door rings signalling someone coming in, Ashley raises her eyes from her phone and gives him a short look before walking around the counter to meet him.

 

“So?” she asks, raised eyebrows and a half-smile in expectation.

 

Ashton sort of laughs, all that anxiety from before built to the extremes in his throat, and when he looks down and shakes his head, feeling like a fool, Ashley laughs too. Their eyes meet again, and she’s biting down a smile like she must have seen this coming, like she’s proud somehow of something she shouldn’t be. What is there to be proud of, really, when Ashton didn’t do anything special?

 

“He doesn’t mind my going there, for starters,” he says, because really, he couldn’t explain his smile to Ashley, so he went with the second thing that made him run back to her.

 

“No shit, Sherlock,” she rolls her eyes, the smirk still on her lips, and she passes him, bumping her shoulder into his. He follows, until they’re walking to the back of the shop.

 

Behind the comedy section there’s a little table and children-sized chairs. Over the pink and yellow table there are blank sheets and several colored pencils. They’ve done this before, but especially now, in the high of this strange feeling, he feels ridiculous sitting on a child-sized wooden chair, even if his best friend takes the blue seat across from him.

 

How absurd, two adults sitting on children chairs. And more than that, how absurd, that he can’t stop smiling.

 

“Tell me, please?” he asks, frowning a bit, the smile dying down just enough to get her attention. “I figure it can’t be too bad, if he wasn’t angry at me for going there and seeing him. But I still need to know—Calum and Michael told me he went to our school, I’d figured that much already. But the way you spoke, it made it sound like—like maybe I knew him?”

 

Sternly and atypical of her, she looks away for a moment, presses her lips together and studies her perfectly manicured fingernails. “You didn’t,” she says finally, and it isn’t enough of a good answer, she must know, but still she takes her time, as if trying to think what the best way to put it is. “Just… I know school was harsh for both of us. I dated an asshole who left me and you had a lot going on with your family. But what do you remember of school, really?”

 

Ashton pauses. “In general?” she nods. “I—I remember being with you most of the time. Michael and Calum, too, sure, but not always. I remember most teacher liked us, most classmates didn’t,” he pauses, smirks, like it actually makes him feel something good to be reminded of that. “I don’t know where you want me to go with this. You were there.”

 

“And sometimes I feel like you weren’t,” she says, matter-of-factly, cocking an eyebrow. “You know what’s so sad about us working on a shitty rental shop with about two customers a shift? This wasn’t supposed to be our lives, Ash,” she shakes her head, stares down at the pink and yellow table between them. “We were fucking titans, is what we were. People looked up to us. We defied all logic, standing up for everyone and fighting bullies, not really teachers’ pets but still liked by most of them. We were supposed to go places. Remember how Anne kept telling me I should run for prom queen? I should have, I would have won. You would have been my king, too,” she allows herself a little smile, tilting her head to the side a bit.

 

Ashton parts his lips, looks at her, face blank.

 

Because he knows. He _was_ there. But remembering these things, it doesn’t help. Everyone their age went to college after that, like he knows both Calum and Michael will, too, and they’re constantly the ones left behind. Ashley couldn’t care to even apply for any schools after high school was over, and Ashton only lasted a week in community college before he decided the pressure was too overwhelming and that it was too much for him. Everyone they know are finishing their first year in colleges all over the country, some abroad, and they’re sitting in coloured children seats, in a video rental shop with a ceiling fan that makes too much noise and does little to protect them from the heavy Australian summer.

 

He runs his hand over his head, looks away from her, because: “I know.”

 

What he thinks is, some memories are better buried. He doesn’t need to remember how Most Likely To Conquer The World ended up cutting his wrists in the campus bathroom and staring in wide-eyed panic as he realized he’d gone too far and he’d have to get stitches at the hospital. Apparently, the memories make Ashley just as bitter, because she sighs heavily, forces eye contact with her insistent eyes.

 

“Anyway,” she gestures dismissively. “I guess what I’m saying is,” Ashley pauses, gives him a long look, “Kid had a mad crush on you, Ash.”

 

Ashton frowns and parts his lips, ready to tell her she’s wrong, but he doesn’t. He lets it sink, watches time expand into something cruelly long, blinking slowly as Ashley presses her lips together for a moment, stares at her own uncut wrists, traces her thumb against it as if remembering it triggers some unpleasant memories of her own. But she owns him this much, doesn’t she, to tell him all she remembers and he doesn’t, because he’s better at blocking it all than she is, and either way, he needs to know.

 

“Senior year, when you went down hard after a stupid fight with that guy Derek,” she raises her eyebrows to see if he remembers, he nods. “Everyone was dumbstruck, Derek included,” she looks away from him, brows furrowing, “you on the ground with your nose bleeding like hell,” she makes a face, wincing and staring at the ground. Ashley looks at him again, sighs, “He was the only one who did something. He ran to you, pulled your half-conscious _empty_ fucking head to his lap, started yelling at people to do something. Not sure whether you passed out before or after that, to be honest. All I know is, never even noticed him before, definitely never heard him yell at anyone. Never heard his voice after that at all.”

 

If his life was better scripted and he remembered the important things, like his father’s lullabies to Harry when he was a baby or the look of desperation in Ashley’s face when he went down with blood staining his neck and shirt, he would also remember this. He would have something better to say than just:

 

“Are you sure? I don’t remember anyone coming to me at all. All I remember is Derek’s fist, and then, well, darkness,” he chuckles, but it’s not funny. He hates that it happened in the first place, hates how people gathered around them, yelling, _fight! fight! fight!_ like they were animals. He hated the look in Anne’s face when she talked to the principal, hated the smugness on Derek’s face for the few months of school that followed.

 

Ashley just stares at him. “I’m sure.”

 

And slowly, he nods. Just because he doesn’t remember it, doesn’t mean it doesn’t make sense, doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.

 

#

 

Ashton has both Calum and Michael over, make them bear his terrible last-minute cooking until Harry sighs dramatically and helps him with the pasta sauce, while Lauren texts on the couch with her soon-to-be-boyfriend, and trying to make as little of a big deal as he can, he fills Calum in with what he didn’t know, updates Michael on what he already did. It’s the strangest thing, talking about Luke to his friends with Harry more or less paying attention in the same room, his sister in the next.

 

He’s never made a point of hiding his sexual orientation from Harry or Lauren—they know he likes both girls and boys. So Harry doesn’t give him a weird look or points it out when Ashton talks about a boy supposedly having a crush on him. But when he mentions the coming-out-of-a-coma part, Harry stops on his tracks, gives his big brother a long look.

 

Calum interrupts Harry’s train of thought, though, frowns a little and says, “To be fair, I thought you were dating someone hideous and didn’t want us to find out, and that was why you were busy every evening.”

 

Harry rolls his eyes dramatically, and because he’s nine years old and Calum gets fake-offended at that, when he asks what the hell to Harry, Michael takes it as an opportunity to come closer to Ashton, touching his arm so he’s more or less excluded from them. Calum takes the hint, engages conversation with Harry on _why is Harry being such a little shit_ and _show a little respect for the elderly_ , etc.

 

“Does that change anything, Ash?” Michael asks him, his voice quiet and cautious.

 

Blinking a couple of times, he considers what this could mean for him, finding out that Luke had at one point a crush on him that he may or may not still have. It’s bizarre, in a way, like living a breath-taking moment on reverse: first comes the sucker punch and the sharp pain, later the dizziness, only to get a glimpse of beauty before everything’s normal again like it never happened at all. Ashton bites on his bottom lip and stares at Michael, not really knowing how to go about this, because: no, it doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t make him look at Luke any differently, doesn’t make him feel weird about Luke looking at him before when he wasn’t looking, especially since he’d spent such a long time lately just looking at Luke.

 

But at the same time, it does change things. It makes him think back of that night.

 

It makes him think that if maybe he’d paid attention to Luke before, he could have stopped it. He was fairly drunk earlier in the night, could have very well flirted with Luke or put his arms around him, if he had any idea. If he had any idea that Luke was there and Luke didn’t think he was just another idiot who’d taken a magic pill and passed hugs onto strangers and kisses on cheeks, then maybe he’d have kissed his mouth and shielded Luke’s body with his, and he’d never had an argument with anyone, because Ashton would have been all he’d ever see that night. And no one would have been pissed about something as trivial as football, and no one would draw a gun, and it would never hurt, and it would never bring chaos, and they’d all be safe.

 

And maybe Ashton would have found it in him to properly talk, to let the weight off his shoulders for a moment and talk about what’s on his head, like he had, but Luke would have listened from the start, with eager blue eyes open and looking back at him. And maybe Ashton would have touched his face and kissed him on the lips midsentence, and Luke would call him a dork.

 

Which doesn’t go to say that he has any idea whether he could be able to live up to someone else’s crush and expectations, filling in just right the spot someone else fantasized of him taking. But he would have tried.

 

Which doesn’t go to say that he would still be interested after a week, because he never is, when everyone around him falls in love and it lasts, he falls out of love before even saying the three words to anyone. But maybe Luke would have been worth the try of not giving up on a work in progress.

 

It’s all in the realm of wild possibilities and he’ll never know, and saying all seems pointless. Michael’s raised eyebrows tell him he expects honesty, though, but his yes-and-no answer gets too long and he trips over the first syllable, a weird stutter that makes both him and Michael laugh a bit, and Michael takes the can of beer from his hand.

 

“You’re done with beer for tonight,” and he takes a sip of Ashton’s beer, a hand around Ashton’s shoulders to bring him back to Calum and Harry.

 

It’s not the beer at all, but Ashton lets him think that, smiles at some of the people he loves the most in the same house, Calum and Harry arguing heatedly about Dragon Ball Z characters, and he feels like he has his fair share of knowledge to drop on them, interrupts both, says the two are wrong, that no bad guy was ever as awesome as Frieza.

 

#

 

At night, he dreams Michael wasn’t at the party and he turned and looked, and when the bullet hit Luke’s head, he ran to him. Through the mud and the blood, he still clung to the boy, and when he started crying, pressing Luke’s lifeless body against him, his shirt got stained with blood.

 

He wakes up screaming.

 

Lauren comes to his room before Anne, sits next to him and holds him close, and he only notices he’s crying and shaking when Anne stands by the door and covers her mouth and looks like she’s watching someone be taken from her. But it’s just his little sister, combing his hair back with her fingers, saying, “Ssh, it was just a dream.”

 

#

 

Especially now, that it doesn’t feel like he’s doing something wrong anymore—especially now that he’s sure that Luke is okay with his visits—Ashton feels absolutely ridiculous, hiding behind a leaflet, sitting in the back of the waiting room, watching Luke’s siblings leaving the room, meeting Luke’s parents to leave the hospital. It shouldn’t still feel like he needs to hide from them, but what if Luke changes his mind? Maybe Mrs Hemmings remembers Ashton from school. He just doesn’t want to risk it.

 

But once they’re gone, he walks into the ICU purposefully, trying to bite back the smile of nervousness he gets when he walks these steps.

 

He finds Luke alone, lying in bed a little more up than usual, almost sitting but not quite, both hands folded over his chest, eyebrows raised as he seems to be trying to fit his fingers one after the other, not quite succeeding as much as he’d expected.

 

Over the month, his hair’s grown a lot, back to what some of his pictures had showed in social networks before, definitely enough to cover the stitches or scars or whatever was the trace left by the bullet. Ashton presses his lips together for a moment, feeling his chest heavy with remembering it, then lets a weak smile go to his lips as Luke registers him and smiles too.

 

“Good news, I’m not drugged this time,” is the first thing he says.

 

Ashton laughs, actually laughs, tucking his hands into the pockets of his jeans and coming a bit closer, stopping before he stopped yesterday, way before he used to stop. “I’m pretty sure they still have you on painkillers, must be weaker ones,” he raises his eyebrows.

 

Luke gives him a look like he may be offended. “Stop proving me wrong. I’m the injured one, give me the small wins,” and it’s not even a proper joke, but he laughs after that, so Ashton laughs too, lowering his head, shaking it a bit. “Hey, thanks for coming. I wasn’t sure you were gonna show up.”

 

His eyes leave Ashton’s, cheeks growing pink, and Ashton parts his lips, looking at him for a moment like he’s seeing him for the first time. He isn’t sure what is it about it, hopes it wasn’t what Ashley told him, but he can’t help but wonder: what is wrong with the world, that this is the first time he notices Luke Hemmings, barely sitting in a hospital bed, hooked on painkillers and probably having a thousand exams ran on him every couple of hours?

 

“I was just—yeah, yeah, sure I’d come,” he lowers his eyes, too, and though he feels they both need to address the elephant in the room, he still looks back at where Luke’s eyes are, watching his fingers move absentmindedly for a moment. “How are you feeling, really?”

 

At first he shrugs, and all that Ashton can focus on is that if he can shrug, this is good news. But then he sighs and it sounds so tired, so fed up with it all. It takes him a moment, but then finally he’s talking. “I’m on intense physiotherapy all day long. Mum sends a shrink over so I can talk about it when I don’t have doctors around me, but I don’t want to. The neurosurgeon that performed the brain surgery says I should have lost the,” he pauses, his fingers gesturing dismissively on top of his chest, “lost the speech connections in my brain? So what Mum takes as a miracle, Dad takes as medical error. They’re making me see a speech therapist, too,” he rolls his eyes.

 

Ashton snorts, shaking his head a bit, still holding eye-contact. “Why the hell are they wasting time on a speech therapist? You’ve just naturally used about five terms I’d struggle to.”

 

Luke cocks an eyebrow with his mouth shaping into a smug smile. “Name one.”

 

He parts his lips, hands out of his pockets to gesture wildly. “Ah—I don’t know? Neurosurgeon?” he drags the word a bit too much, but it’s worth it, making a fool of himself, because Luke shakes his head and gives him an honest laugh. “I mean it, though, you’ve been awake for three days. I think you’re doing fine.”

 

Tilting his head to the side a bit like he may be shy about his accomplishment, he murmurs a half-assed, “Thank you,” and Ashton has trouble focusing on why the hell it makes _him_ feel shy instead.

 

He feels it grow in his chest, an absurd need to address the fact that he doesn’t remember Luke and he thinks it’s unfair that Luke remembers him. He doesn’t want Luke to be led on—that isn’t _it_ , isn’t exactly what he’s worried about, but what if Luke finds out by someone that isn’t him that he doesn’t remember shit? Clearly he’d be disappointed. Or something. He feels like he needs to address that night when it happened. He needs to know that Luke’s not having nightmares. He needs to know why the hell Luke is taking his presence as naturally as saying words like _neurosurgeon_ , because even if he still does have a high school crush on Ashton, it’s not supposed to be this easy.

 

But Luke has better, more elaborated plans, and they all seem to involve dodging the hard questions.

 

“I have really fucking amazing news,” he says, his voice a little quieter, and it draws Ashton closer as if he’s a poor magnet lured by Luke. “Only one of the three is a lie. Ready?” and Ashton frowns, but still nods. “One, I don’t like pizza,” he stares at Ashton, sternest look someone his age could possibly have on his face. “Two, I can’t surf,” another pause, Ashton nodding along. “Three, I’ll be out of this awful ICU and into a room for myself in only a couple of days.”

 

Ashton feels excitement build in his chest before he properly registers that he shouldn’t get too excited, shouldn’t show how big this is for him, shouldn’t give away these signs of things he doesn’t know the name of yet. Because Luke is watching this time. Luke is watching his reactions closely, even if he still smiles widely and laughs when Ashton’s hand goes nervously to the bed and sort of brushes against Luke’s elbow, then retrieving his hand almost immediately. He doesn’t have it in him to apologize, though, he’s grinning, eyebrows raised high and a smile that won’t leave his face.

 

“This is so—fuck, Luke, that’s so awesome.”

 

“I know, I said it was amazing,” he nods a bit, looking at Ashton.

 

And maybe he’s overly excited, but Luke’s overly fond at what he sees anyway. That’s how Ashton sees it, burying his teeth into his bottom lip so he can stop looking like such dork. It doesn’t even register that it’s the first time he’s called Luke by his name, feels so comfortable it doesn’t seem like it needs any more particular addressing than Luke swearing does.

 

“Wait, does that mean you can’t surf?” he says, as an after-thought. “Because honestly, if you don’t like pizza, I don’t think we can be friends.”

 

For a terribly long second, Luke stares at him, face blank, not giving anything away. And then he sort of laughs, sort of chuckles, and Ashton rolls his eyes, laughing and not really knowing _why_.

 

“Of _course_ I love pizza, what type of question is that? I suck at surfing, though. I have this friend, she tried teaching me, but I just wasn’t any good.”

 

Something about Luke’s apologetic look almost makes Ashton tell him that he, too, can’t surf to save his life, and that they should definitely try to suck less at it together. But that would imply things Ashton can’t bring himself to say, so instead he just shakes his head a bit more, asks Luke when he’s leaving the ICU, and when Luke keeps giving him vague answers and looking away, he encourages Luke to go for the details.

 

He doesn’t care that he spends most of his visit time listening to Luke talk about medical procedures for exams, using so many terms he’s never heard Anne talk about, that for the most part he’s legitimate lost on what exactly the doctors are examining Luke for. But he doesn’t really mind. Luke’s talking, and he just wants to have that to remember later, hopes he won’t be robbed of this memory, too, because right then, listening to him go on and on and roll his eyes dramatically, he can’t help a smile.

 

Ashton wants to remember this, what his voice sounded like, at ease with a half-stranger who hopes to be around for a long time.

 

“Bottom line, you’re being moved to a room in four days?” he raises his eyebrows. Luke nods. “Alright. And this is good because it means they’ll stop running so many tests on you?” he tries, squinting his eyes.

 

“Sort of? I think they’ll still have me around for a while. Brain stuff,” he points at his head, and he looks like such a dork doing it, that Ashton can’t help but lower his head as if in defeat, a smile appearing in his lips before he could help himself. “But hey, don’t stop coming.” He pauses, Ashton looks at him, parts his lips, but still doesn’t say a thing. And maybe the silence is a bit more than Luke can handle, because he frowns and rushes to say: “I mean, obviously, if you want to keep coming, I mean. I know you have a life, and probably a busy social life too, that I don’t want to keep you from. _Obviously_ ,” he rolls his eyes, looking away.

 

Ashton blinks, looking at him.

 

“And that was kind of crossing the line to ask, and I shouldn’t have, because, what the fuck, right,” he laughs nervously, fingers fidgeting with the end of the sheet covering him up to his chest. “Just forget I asked. It’s whatever. You know, come if you want to come and whenever, it’s not like you have any obligations to,” he raises his eyebrows, looking at Ashton again. “I mean, not that I ever thought you _had_ to come. That sounded wrong. Look…” he trails off, sighing, looking away again.

 

And Ashton thinks it’s definitely odd, that he feels that for something in his chest beating so hard and loud and for what it seems like the first time in forever, there’s not an ounce of anything bad or ugly weighing his chest down. It’s so unnatural for him, in fact, that it takes him a moment to understand that what’s beating is his heart, what’s pulsing through his veins is just blood, and there’s nothing wrong with him or the way he looks at Luke.

 

Ashton parts his lips, but still he takes his time, the smile coming to his lips lazily, his eyes taking in Luke’s pink cheeks, the eminent frustration in his face like he’s just ruined something brilliant. As if he could ever.

 

“Luke,” he laughs, and when Luke hums in response, raising his eyes to meet him, it takes him everything to stand still. “It wasn’t even that long ago—it was _yesterday_ that I was asking if I could come to visit again,” he cocks an eyebrow, raising his chin a bit. “I’m pretty sure that shows that I want to come.” He pauses, looks at Luke, and Luke slowly nods, looking like he doesn’t know what to do with that information any more than Ashton does. “As for a busy social life, eh,” he makes a face, wrinkles his nose. “I kind of don’t have one?”

 

“Well, as you can see, I do,” Luke answers fast, “just note the line of people waiting to see me, just behind you. I’m a very popular person.”

 

And as he smiles at his own lame joke, Ashton can’t think of a single reason why he shouldn’t be.

 

Right on cue, Anne comes, and when she tells Ashton it’s time to go, he sort of smiles on his way out, murmuring a quiet, “Bye,” that Luke responds with a half-smile. Ashton looks over his shoulder once or twice, just to see if Luke’s still there, in one piece, and when he does, Luke’s still looking at him.

 

#

 

The next four days go more or less the same.

 

He waits until Luke’s family leaves, kills time playing games on his phone or making up conversations in his head for strangers, everything to keep him busy, and then goes to see Luke. He draws an imaginary line he doesn’t dare cross, even if sometimes it means standing a bit awkwardly next to his bed without touching it.

 

Ashton always asks about Luke’s progress, and he moves his hands proudly to show complete(ly awkward) control over his fingers. His arms get a bit stronger, but he complains his legs still can’t hold him, and it might be a couple of weeks before they do. Ashton makes a lame joke about it being Luke’s fault, with how long his legs are, and if Luke teases him about knowing that, Ashton thinks it’s Luke’s own fault too that Ashton doesn’t talk for the next couple of seconds, jaw dropped in absolute shock and embarrassment.

 

Mostly Luke asks about his day instead, though, and he tells him, even if it’s nothing much: took Lauren to a friend’s, brought Anne lunch, gave some friends a ride from school on the way back, had the shift at the video rental shop, had contests with Ashley to see who spent the longest without blinking.

 

It’s just, for those four days, Ashton genuinely thinks he can do this: he can ignore the fact that they were never really friends before, that Luke was shot in the head the night his life took yet another wrong turn. He thinks he can let it go that his hands are nervous and fidgety while he waits to see Luke, and that Anne has simply accepted him in the hospital every day, offering him coffee when he’s not the one bringing her a cup. He thinks he can do this, because it’s something to look forward to in even the dullest days. It’s something he catches himself thinking of, what silly and unremarkable thing he’ll tell Luke about when he sees him next, and joke that won’t be funny he’ll make, and how come Luke always laughs regardless.

 

For four days, he fools himself into thinking he’s found a special type of friend he’s never found in any of his best friends, catches himself daydreaming in the middle of too warm and dry afternoons about the common things they’ll do when Luke gets out of the hospital. Maybe they should do something about being two lousy surfers.

 

Ashley doesn’t ask again about him, just leaves him to mention Luke whenever he wants to, which isn’t as often, mostly because she’s been dealing with some drama of her own in terms of family, and he wants to focus on distracting her. Michael ends up asking that girl who was a friend of Luke out, but Michael’s too wary about the whole thing to even acknowledge Luke, and Ashton understands. He swears he does. Calum asks about Luke only once, when Ashton gives him a ride to school when he oversleeps. Raises his eyes from his phone, clears his throat, asks a tone too quiet about Ashton’s new friend. Ashton doesn’t know what to say, shrugs and says he’s doing okay, they both are. And Calum doesn’t ask any more questions, so he figures he’d gotten what he was looking for.

 

But it’s from Anne that he gets his cold slap of reality.

 

It’s her day off and they’re watching a _Full House_ marathon, Lauren drooling a bit on his shoulder and Harry spread on the carpet, hugged on a cushion, hand still in a bowl of popcorn. Ashton looks up at Anne to make a joke about Lauren, but the look in her face catches him off guard.

 

“What is it?”

 

Anne sighs heavily, reaches for the controller and mutes the TV. She turns to him with a stern look, and though her look gives it away, it still isn’t anything he could have expected by a mile.

 

“There are two things that have been bothering me a lot,” she pauses, puts one finger up. “One, the fact that his family doesn’t know you’re seeing him. I don’t know why none of you have mentioned anything, but it looks like you’re doing something wrong and I don’t like it.” Anne gives him a look to see how deep her words went. Ashton parts his lips, but he’s got no excuses, knows that maybe she’s right. It’s not like their silly ten minute conversations are anything to be ashamed of.

 

When he reluctantly nods, she puts a second finger up, “Two, you appear to be his only friend. You’re certainly the only one other than his family who sees him. Which is why I think you should talk to him about talking to the police, because it’s not fair—I’m a mother, Ashton, I can only imagine what that woman went through, with her son in coma and thinking he may not wake up. She needs to have this, to put that man who shot him behind bars. And it won’t happen if Luke keeps refusing to speak.”

 

It does feel like a slap, cold and brutal, the type to leave a mark.

 

Ashton feels the world around him slow down until it freezes, and he’s confronted with how serious everything is, how much people have cried and how there is, in fact, a villain to this story. To Luke’s story. A story he more or less is part of, even if by only being a spectator who went around everyone’s backs until he got himself a more important role.

 

His jaw sets, his shoulders grow rigid. He blinks at Anne in the dark, her face painted in pastel colours by the lights coming from the ‘90s sitcom irradiating from the TV.

 

What could he say to that? That he’d forgotten by chance the fact that Luke was shot? That he’d buried the memory so deep that he made up new scenarios for them to have met? That he still thought it might have been his fault, for not seeing him, not looking at him before? It’s only now they’re looking at each other at the same time. _That_ ’s what’s not fair, stopping this for a reality call, involving the police and doctors and nurses even though they were part of this all along. It feels like an invasion, someone breaking into his life and messing with his drawers and head.

 

He can’t say that, can’t let Anne know how far he’d go to keep this picture perfect intact. Not because she’d make a scene, either. She’d probably be quiet, sigh and change the subject, but he knows what she’d think. Anne would think that this is not how she raised her son—all three children, all by herself—that she raised them to do what’s right and more than that, to _know_ what’s right. The very fact that the notion got confused for Ashton for a week makes him feel uncomfortable, like he should ask for forgiveness.

 

It’s just—yeah, he knows what’s right. What’s right is dealing with this, even if none of them seem to be ready to do so. They are not friends by chance. They are two broken people coming together because everything was falling apart.

 

And if there are demons, they should be fought.

 

That’s why Ashton, again, reluctantly nods, and because that doesn’t make Anne look away from him, Ashton sighs softly, saying, “I’ll talk to him.”

 

#

 

His first thought when he wakes up from a dreamless night, is that he’s definitely not slept enough. It always feels like this, whenever Anne has enough time to for family movie, the next day both Lauren and Harry walking around the house to get ready for school like zombies, Ashton spending ten minutes only splashing water on his face to see if he feels more awake.

 

It’s a small sacrifice they’re all willing to make, and nobody complains, but Ashton still yawns what feels like thousand times.

 

He’s so preoccupied with thinking of maybe taking a nap after Anne, Lauren and Harry are all gone, that as he finishes pouring Anne some coffee and she gives him a long look, it takes him a minute to connect that with their conversation last night, the promise he’s made her the night before. It takes her eyes on him and raised eyebrows, some reticent tone when they’re alone in the kitchen, Harry yelling that he’s almost ready and Lauren sighing heavily in annoyance.

 

“I need a few days,” he says, breathing out slowly, and Anne just presses her lips together, shrugs as if to say it’s his call, even if it isn’t, even if it depends on Luke just as heavily as it does on him.

 

Which is odd, he thinks, in a way, that he’s got any responsibility for how things go at all. Anne never says it, but it still feels that way, that if he doesn’t talk, then maybe no right will ever come of Luke’s decisions. It’s bizarre enough, thinking Luke would even listen to him in the first place, and then he counts the weeks in his fingers, now the fifth since the party where it all started, not even ten days since Luke woke up. He’s not even used to having nearly as much impact on his siblings, let alone on a stranger with baby blue eyes and a smile that’s constantly indecisive between smug and shy.

 

Ashton takes a sip of his own cup of coffee, Anne licking her lips as she looks through the window, makes some comment about what he can cook himself for lunch.

 

“Alright,” he clears his throat, looks at her. “But, I mean, I did mean what I said, about talking to him. But today’s his first day on his room, isn’t it? I don’t want to come and just bring this storm of demands onto him. Let him catch a breath, is all I’m saying.”

 

She only offers him a thin smile, her lips pressed into a line that is maybe supposed to resemble some type of assurance, or maybe the opposite of that: maybe it is in fact supposed to make him feel like he’s doing something wrong, taking the shortcuts just because they’re easier, avoiding the real work. He doesn’t know for sure why he should even bother with the real work. It’s not like they’re life-long friends and he owns Luke’s family anything, not like it is with Michael’s or Calum’s or Ashley’s. And in the end of the day, he’s really only known Luke for so long, his mother probably doesn’t even remember Ashton, the rest of his family absolutely unaware of Ashton’s existence at all.

 

This is just a dumb thought, though, he knows even as he fools himself into thinking doing the right thing doesn’t matter, washing his and Anne’s cups absentmindedly. He knows that, really, he’s just scared.

 

#

 

Ashley and Ashton have developed a system with the passing months to determine which days they are most likely to actually work. Weekends are, of course, a given. They alternate between working on Sundays, both work reduced shifts on Saturdays, but people start coming for DVDs by Friday afternoon. Monday and Tuesday are somewhat busy because of people coming to return DVDs. There is the occasional customer on Thursdays, too, but Wednesdays are mostly dead.

 

Today is a Wednesday, which makes sense, he supposes.

 

It’s slow enough that Ashley turns the ambient music down all the way, starts playing XXYYXX on her phone, and while Ashton doesn’t particularly mind, it puts him in a strange mood.

 

She closes her eyes, moves to the beat until she’s full-on dancing behind the counter in the video rental shop. He laughs, shaking his head a bit, looking down to the floor, back rested against the nearest wall. It isn’t the first time this happens, this weird easiness, but it makes him anxious, like he’s supposed to do something drastic to break the flow, so when he clears his throat and looks at her, Ashley doesn’t look surprised, opening her eyes, body still moving to the beats coming from her phone.

 

“We should go to a party this weekend.”

 

And maybe it has to do with her own things, the things she’s mentioned she’s going through with her father and her ex-boyfriend being in town, but she tilts her chin up, asks, “Why wait until the weekend? Let’s go out tonight.”

 

It’s like he knows, can predict it coming, the self-destruction closing in on him like a monster ready to chase him down, but he doesn’t seem to care, not right now. He shrugs, then nods. He makes up his mind faster than he can think about pros and cons. Ashton should know what it’d be like, coming back to a party when last time was over a month ago and destroyed so much.

 

But it’s the music and the environment, how dull the day is, how terrified he is of what he may be about to lose with talking about things with Luke that, sure, it was Anne who mentioned first, but he knows he thinks they’re the right things, too.

 

“I have to go to the hospital first, though,” he says.

 

Ashley doesn’t stop dancing. Maybe that’s warning enough, should alarm him and tell him she is in no mood for drinking diet Coke and humming classics under her breath. But he hasn’t been taking care of his friends lately, hasn’t been paying enough attention in what it must feel like, a mile in their shoes. There’s no way he’d know what’s on her head before the evening.

 

There’s that hint of smirk on her lips as she nods, moves her arms up like this new Shlohmo remix was made for her and her only. Ashton blinks a couple of times, tries to engage conversation with: “I need to talk to Luke about some things.”

 

But Ashley’s licking her lips together, turning the music up, and Ashton doesn’t have it in him to insist. After a moment, he asks if he should ask Michael and Calum, too, and she says to get in touch with them, that she can help sneak them out of their houses if it comes to it.

 

And it feels like the thousandth sign, but he still ignores it. There’s a pounding in his head, like the fact that this is a very bad idea is exactly what pulls him forward. Even before Calum picks up the phone, he knows that this is why they’ll all say yes, too.

 

#

 

When Ashton was fifteen and Harry was five, Harry broke his arm. Usually, things as small as those don’t get you a hospital room, but Anne was struggling to keep her bravado and Ashton got to the hospital with his face swollen from all the crying. Strings were pulled, and Harry had himself a hospital room for the rest of the day, and Ashton spent all that time with him, entertaining him in the silliest ways, from pretending to be sick himself, to actually making up horror stories just to keep Harry’s eyes open until Anne’s shift was over and she could take them home.

 

What he remembers is walking the corridors of a ward he’s never been to before, sniffing and feeling his legs a little weak. He’d broken his arm before, when he was just a little older than Harry, but being there for someone else was different, terrifying even. Lauren didn’t even know at the time, he’d left her at a neighbour’s place and rushed to the hospital on his bike. Anne had been mad, and he couldn’t have cared less. All he knew was, he’d wanted to see his brother, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

Right now, walking on this very same ward, he feels envy for the boy he once was, brave enough to soldier through blurred faces who ignored him, fearless enough that it didn’t matter that everyone thought it was a bad idea that a fifteen year old was keeping another minor company. Back then, he would have done anything it could possibly take.

 

Now, the only reason for his legs to not stop going, for him to not stop walking, is that he’s afraid that if he stops, he’ll turn and leave.

 

Ashton didn’t talk to the receptionist this time, not immediately anyway. He’d called Anne first, asked if she could spare a second to do this with him—not that he’d needed any help when he was fifteen, not then, no—and it was she who guided him through the corridors, until he was just before Luke’s closed door.

 

“It’s here, then,” he says slowly, blinking at the number on top of the door. Anne nods, but still says nothing and doesn’t move away, so he takes a deep breath, and tells her: “I’ve thought a lot about this, okay? And you’re right. About everything. I’ll talk to him about things. Even if he doesn’t want to listen, I’ll still try.”

 

Anne gives him a look, frowns. “You’re not doing this for me. You know that, don’t you?”

 

He chuckles—because, yeah, obviously. He knows exactly why he’s doing it. “I’m not doing this for him, either, I hope you know that. I’m doing this for me.”

 

It feels disloyal, admitting it out loud, like he’s betraying Luke in the dirtiest possible way. It’s one thing to think it, put yourself first, understand your needs to process and deal and wreck everything in your way to go through with what your mind and body need. But he never wanted to wreck Luke, and he’s so desperately scared he will; he needs Luke for this. The processing and dealing starts with Luke.

 

Which is why his heart is nervous and his fingers won’t stop fidgeting with anything he can put his hands on. Which is why he feels his breath uneasy. Because no matter what, he’s asking what he needs to ask, and if the answer is negative, then he’s going to have to do this alone.

 

In some conscious level, he understands this is what the party tonight is all about. If it doesn’t work, he can still drink himself into forgetting about all failures, bury it all deeper. If it’s alone, he can’t do it, then better bury it.

 

Bury it in any way he can. It will have to do.

 

Anne frowns a little, giving him a long look, like she doesn’t understand. She couldn’t possibly, Ashton knows, but still he resents her for that. “How long do I have?”

 

She shrugs. “Rooms don’t actually have visiting hours, but he’s a minor. His parents may want to come back to spend the night at any time. I can’t really monitor the halls for you. I have to work.”

 

Great. A fresh wave of worry.

 

Instead of voicing his new concern, he just nods, licks his lips, says, “Okay.”

 

There’s something small there, in the way Anne puts one of her hands on the doorknob and the other close to her chest, how she looks at her son as if asking _are you sure_ and telling him _there’s still time to back off_. What she doesn’t get is that this is no longer about Luke, or really, it is, but about more than that, also. There’s also something small in the way Ashton parts his lips and doesn’t break eye contact, as if telling her _I’m glad we had that conversation last night_ and _please let’s keep trying to have meaningful conversations however hard they may be_. What he doesn’t get is that she knows these things already, like all mothers do, even when they don’t, not really, they still inherently have it in them to know what’s best for their children even if it goes against what they think should be right for them.

 

As he doesn’t interrupt her, she knocks on the door, after a pause pushing it open. Ashton still stays behind, blinking nervously and staring at the floor. He hears Anne say, “Evening, Mr Hemmings. There’s a visitor for you, if that’s okay? Ashton?”

 

And he doesn’t really know how Luke reacts because he can’t bring himself to put one foot in front of the other, but Anne backs off until she’s almost out of the room completely, smiling politely at Luke, one hand still on the doorknob. Then her eyes drift back to Ashton, and Ashton tries swallowing, his throat dry.

 

Anne merely pets him on the back and then disappears.

 

That wasn’t exactly the help he was hoping to get from her, but it still works. It leaves him in front of an open door with no one stopping him from walking inside. It counts for something.

 

Ashton takes a deep breath, tries shaking off the feeling that he’s doing something selfish, tells himself this is what Luke needs, too, and walks in the room, closes the door behind him before even properly looking at Luke.

 

He hears him before he looks at him.

 

“You better compliment the room decorations, because I put a lot of thought into it,” he says slowly, a little dragged, probably tired and sleepy already, even though it’s early. Ashton looks around, nothing particularly jumping his eyes. Just another hospital room, naked of any touch of familiarity. He smiles. “What, no _whoa_?” Luke tries, raising his eyebrows.

 

Luke’s bed is in the centre of the room, a large armchair placed right next to it. The window is to the far left, opposite to the door, and it remains closed, but still through it there’s a hint of sun coming down in the horizon. Ashton takes a deep breath, looking back at Luke, wired to machines around the bed, but breathing through his nose, face free of any tubes, but his hands and arms are still sparkled with needle dots, a butterfly needle attached to the back of his right hand.

 

Ashton walks to him slowly, giving him a side smile. “It’s really something. I’m thinking when I finally move out of Mum’s house, I’m going to hire you to decorate my place. How does that sound?”

 

Smiling in being indulged, Luke tilts his head to the side just a bit, smile lazily playing on his lips. “Seen as I’ll probably still not have finished high school, I’ll be taking any and all offers of jobs, thank you very much.”

 

And he needs this cue, needs to ask whether the doctors have given Luke any date for when he’s possibly leaving the hospital, if there’s any chance of him still graduating with his class. But his tongue doesn’t work, he ends up biting it instead, palming the armchair next to the bed and tentatively taking a seat next to Luke.

 

It’s because his nervous and anxious, he knows, but still he points at Luke’s hand, and asks in a small voice: “Does it hurt?”

 

Reluctantly like he’d rather forget it’s there altogether, Luke follows Ashton’s eyes, looks back at the butterfly needle on the back of his hand. He’s more lying than sitting this time, so his chin almost meets his chest for him to get a proper angle—that in itself doesn’t get to Ashton, but the fact that Luke doesn’t go through the effort of raising his hand does. It makes him uncomfortable, like he shouldn’t even be there.

 

“It doesn’t—it’s not that it hurts, per se. It’s just heavy around skin, like it might fall off at any time. They need it there for whatever reason though, so I can’t complain,” he sort of shrugs, as much as he can in that position, anyway.

 

“I don’t know if it makes me annoying to say these things, but, I mean,” he breathes in, eyes still on the blue butterfly. “It’s a winged infusion set. It’s probably to hook you on painkillers or whatever faster if you need it. Sometimes for medication, too, but mostly painkillers.” He stops, searches Luke’s face for any sign that he’s exaggerating, that maybe they’re using it for something else. Luke’s eyes are on him, but they don’t tell Ashton much. Ashton looks down at the butterfly needle piercing Luke’s hand again, then adds an honest-to-God curious question: “Why are you still in pain?”

 

But it doesn’t sound the way he’d intended to. It sounds broken, like he’s this close to falling apart again, and he doesn’t need this. What he needs is to convince Luke about coming forward to the police and asking him whether he’s talked to the shrink Mrs Hemmings has hired, or if Luke, much like Lauren when Anne and their father divorced, only killed time and refused to talk about anything relevant for a full hour and a half.

 

Luke parts his lips, seems to consider his words carefully, gives up on something in the middle of the thought. “You haven’t told me anything about your day yet. Tell me?”

 

Ashton presses his lips together, eyes going back and forth from the needle to Luke’s eyes, but he ends up smiling, even if it’s a type of smile that makes his muscles feel weird. “It wasn’t the best of days, I guess. I’ve been feeling pretty nauseous all day, but you probably know more about that than me.”

 

He sort of laughs, teeth scratching his bottom lip lightly. “I’ve been eating just fine, actually. Contrary to popular belief, hospital food isn’t that horrible, or at least not in the first couple of days, anyway. I’m pretty sure I’m going to get tired of it soon.”

 

But how soon, and when is he getting out of there, it all echoes in Ashton’s head, but he forces himself to focus, to quiet down, one hand in each arm of the armchair, looking back at Luke, frowning a little.

 

“I need to ask you something.”

 

Luke nods slowly, then says, “Me too.”

 

It sends a cold shiver down his spine, something about the unpredictable always catching him off guard as it’s meant to, like he’s supposed to have gotten used to it already but refuses to. Luke’s eyes are calm and sleepy, maybe drugged on painkillers, maybe just too tired of this eventless Wednesday and done with it.

 

“Fair enough,” he gains time, or loses it, or something. “I’m—I was just wondering. It’s weird that your parents don’t know I’m visiting you, isn’t it? It makes it seem like something wrong. Do you think I should, like, stop coming? I mean,” he shakes his head, looks away from Luke. “I like coming here. I like talking to you. But I feel like I’m doing something wrong, because they don’t know. And I think I need them to.”

 

Luke tilts his head to the side slowly, blinks a couple of times. “What do you mean?”

 

And now he feels like a loser, looking back at Luke with parted lips, trying to put into words how come it’s such a big deal for him, something so small. He keeps reminding himself that they’re not _actual_ friends, that this could very well be what Lauren did three years ago, visiting old people whose families didn’t bother anymore, just because she had the extra time and extra room in her heart. Except Ashton’s heart was tangled with past issues and his head and perceptions were clouded, but being around Luke helped. Maybe that’s a little of what Lauren felt around those strangers who needed her more than she needed them. Maybe Luke needs him more than Ashton needs him.

 

Then again, ha.

 

Ashton runs his fingers over his scalp, avoiding Luke’s eyes. “It’s just, I keep thinking what they’d think, if they walked in right now and saw this stranger in their son’s room. You know?”

 

Luke blinks slowly, all of him particularly slow right now, takes his time with parting his lips again. “I don’t… understand? I mean, what about it worries you?”

 

“It’s—” he gestures widely, like it somehow explains, because words aren’t doing the trick, and he already feels like he’s exposing himself so much, like he needs those songs from Ashley’s phone, like he needs to get lost in everything that isn’t in this hospital right now. The night, the smokes, the drinks, everything.

 

“I’ll just tell them you’re a friend from school,” Luke says after a pause, his voice clearer now, but careful, like he’s trying his best to not upset Ashton, and that’s so weirdly thoughtful that Ashton can’t help looking at him again, one hand on the back of his neck, both elbows resting against his knees. “Relax, there’s nothing wrong going on here,” he adds, as an after-thought, and.

 

And Ashton can’t tell if that’s so. But he still nods, because Luke’s voice soothes his demons and he’d never be ready for them on a Wednesday evening. Maybe on a Monday, with batteries recharged, or on a Friday, pumped with end-of-the-week-and-world energy. Not on a Wednesday, though, and especially not this one.

 

“Okay?” he presses, and when Ashton’s eyes connect with his, Luke adds: “Mum and Ben will be here later I think, she promised to bring me something, and I think Ben is staying the night so I’m not alone,” he looks away, cheeks painted pink. “That’s my brother, by the way,” he adds fast, and then, looking back at Ashton: “What I’m saying is, if it bothers you, you can just coincidentally be here when they come, and I’ll introduce you as my friend from school, and you’ll have nothing to worry about, yeah?”

 

Ashton blinks a couple of times, looking at him.

 

He doesn’t hate it, but it makes him more nervous.

 

Still, it’s that thing with Luke talking, and how he fears Luke could talk him into anything, which is maybe worrying, because Luke’s the sick one in a hospital bed, and he’s the healthy one who should be Doing Things, but keeps coming back to the same place day after day.

 

But it hits him also that if anything, Luke’s awake. More than that, he’s alive.

 

And nothing really seems to matter much after that, so when he nods, Luke definitely buys that everything’s fine, because he offers Ashton a little smile, and Ashton must do something similar with his face and mouth, because Luke’s smile grows more and more genuine until he looks away.

 

“I said I had to ask you something too, didn’t I,” he starts.

 

“Please, do.”

 

Luke raises his eyes from dead-ahead to Ashton, asking: “Why are you still here?”

 

It’s so straight forward that Ashton raises his eyebrows and actually laughs. He doesn’t mean to, it’s just that he can’t help thinking how many nights he’d lose stressing over building up the courage to ask something like that, and Luke just seems to have made up his mind about asking it the second Ashton had something to ask as well. And now he has, and Ashton’s speechless, looking at him with parted lips and a shadow of an inappropriate laugh still on his lips.

 

Luke blinks a couple of times as if to regain composure.

 

“I can imagine why you had to come once or twice, maybe your friends from school mentioned someone from there was,” he stops abruptly, obviously refraining from using the word _shot_ but meaning it all the same. “And then you just wanted to check if they were alright. Because I do believe you’re a good person, one who cares if people live or die at least,” he chuckles, widening his eyes for impact, and Ashton bites back a smile, catching his breath instead. “But I mean, you saw me. I lived, I woke. Why are you still coming?”

 

It doesn’t seem to work that well with Luke, rehearsing what to say in his head. It always goes in the opposite direction of what he’s planned. Luke never catches the hints of the script he’s supposed to follow, asking him to keep coming with pleading eyes when he’s supposed to find it weird that Ashton was there in the first place, asking him to tell Luke about his day like it’s the best part of his, checking with nurses about his name and entertaining the idea of introducing Ashton to his fucking parents.

 

Even in a hospital bed and half-drugged in either painkillers or exhaustion, he’s still every bit of quiet unpredictable mess, and Ashton’s tired enough that he doesn’t think of ways of fixing it. He relaxes into it, lets his shoulders drop a bit as he takes a deep breath.

 

“To be fair, I did ask if I could still come, and you said alright. Or, well, you rolled your eyes at me, which pretty much says _alright_ ,” he starts a smile, a little unsure, but Luke’s blushing cheeks give him permission to offer a proper smile.

 

“It was an alright, yeah,” he adds fast, then looks back at Ashton, searches for his eyes again, so often it’s unsettling. “That isn’t what I asked, though. Why did you keep coming after the first time?”

 

And because he’s already slowed down and is resting his back against the armchair guard and looking at Luke with his tilted head and growingly serious expression, he decides to go for sincerity.

 

“Because I was at the party, and you were few feet away from me when you were shot, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it for one second after it happened. I had no idea who you were, but it nearly killed me that you were dead, and then you weren’t. You were alive and you were a real person with a real life and a real family who missed you, and I started sort of fooling myself into thinking I missed you too, I guess, until I did.” Before Luke can properly react, he adds: “You should know I’m a decent liar, also. Well, not really liar, but a dodger. I dodge all truths I’m not ready to talk about; it’s my first instinct and it’s the one that makes me feel safest. So this is—this is new for me. Being completely honest for once.”

 

It’s all a little too much, overwhelming to the extremes, saying it all and then watching Luke’s face for a reaction, but he’s either too tired or too out of it, and Ashton’s terrified that the first time he comes clean about something so _easily_ , atypically naturally, then his listener won’t even remember.

 

But then Luke breathes out slowly, blinks a couple of times, raises his eyebrows just a tiny bit, and then says, “Thank you.”

 

He chuckles, feels embarrassed but not ashamed. “For being honest?”

 

“Well,” he tries, then pauses, “that’s more your merit than anything else, I guess. You should be proud,” he raises his eyebrows, then: “I just mean, thank you for caring.”

 

Maybe it’s the moment, how he feels his chest heavy and weightless at the same time, one side of his head screaming that talking about that night is reliving it, the other side all made of whispering voices telling him this is the start of something right. Maybe it’s how hard that seems to have hit Luke, how his eyes seem to purposefully avoid Ashton’s for the first time ever, but Ashton catches a glance of them, thinks they’re filled with tears, and he doesn’t know why, and he doesn’t care. What he cares about is this:

 

“Will it hurt if I—?” he gestures, but Luke doesn’t seem to understand, so he reluctantly brings his hand close to Luke’s, hovering Luke’s hand with raised eyebrows, searching Luke’s face for permission to go on.

 

It’s the silliest thing, he thinks, but it feels so powerful.

 

Luke nods, and Ashton swears he gets goose bumps, smiles a little weakly when his hand properly covers Luke’s, trying not to press too hard against the butterfly needle. Luke’s hand barely moves, but still he sighs softly, and Ashton traces his thumb against the boy’s skin for a moment.

 

It doesn’t feel strange or alien or absurd, and it maybe it should, but it still doesn’t. So when Ashton looks at him with a shy smile, Luke offers him something unseen, a smile like any other, but it must be something new, if it makes Ashton hold his breath for so long, looking at him like time slowed down along with his anxious heart.

 

Reluctantly, he retrieves his hand, then asks: “So what is it with you today? You were doing some awesome progress with your hands and arms, and now you’re all,” he gestures at the whole of Luke’s body, and Luke laughs so loud it makes him laugh, too.

 

Luke’s teeth catch on his bottom lip for a second before he replies. “Today was such a full day, I didn’t have much time for physiotherapy. Turns out moving to a room is just as exhaustive as moving to a different house. Minus all the box lifting, which I was spared. Thankfully,” he rolls his eyes. Ashton smiles. “I mean, I’m alright, I’m just… tired. And feeling a bit like all my muscles have gone numb.”

 

“More like limp,” he shrugs, “but it’s okay. You’ll be back to what you were in no time,” he winks, not really knowing what he’s doing, feeling injected with a sudden burst of energy that makes Luke smile back at him widely.

 

And that thing in his new smile—or another one of the same—it doesn’t go away. It’s the biggest reason why, about half an hour later, when they’ve discussed musical taste and classics they’ve both watched and both despised, when Ashley texts Ashton saying they’ll be leaving soon, he feels his heart stop. It isn’t an epiphany, it isn’t a premonition. It’s just that he doesn’t want to leave.

 

“Well, you could maybe tell your Mum I came by?” he offers, already up on his feet, frowning a bit. Luke laughs but nods. “Great. Maybe I won’t hide behind sweets machines in the hospital corridors when I see them anymore.”

 

Luke laughs, closes his eyes and tilts his head to the other side a bit, like that’s the funniest and most wonderful thing ever said. Ashton blinks a couple of times, easy smile on his lips but confusion on his eyes.

 

“What?”

 

“It’s just—I’m imagining that? And the scene is ridiculous?” he offers, raising his eyebrows, shadow of laugh still very much there. Ashton frowns, lets out an offended sound, shaking his head, but Luke still smiles. “But in an endearing way, I mean. Just very, very ridiculous all the same.”

 

Ashton lets himself enjoy the small wins, thinks it’s alright if he smiles in spite of himself, shifting his weight to the other foot, bites his bottom lip for a moment, looking at Luke, before sighing and saying, “Alright, I’ve got to go. See you tomorrow after my shift.”

 

“Bye, Ashton,” he says in response, and it’s just his name, but it sounds like something important.

 

He closes the door with a click, feels a little guilty about leaving him alone but feels an overwhelming sense of victory that stops him from letting guilt top this. By the end of the ward, almost reaching the elevators, he sees Mrs Hemmings talking to whom he assumes is Ben but doesn’t quite remember. He still takes a turn so he doesn’t walk past them, but feels something quieten in his chest that soon they’ll just nod each other’s ways, acknowledge each other and the fact that they all exist in Luke’s life.

 

(It’s something he’s not having trouble with, the concept of having a space in Luke’s life. It comes so easy and naturally that perhaps it should bother him, or at least make him think.)

 

Ashton will tell Anne that he’s made some progress. He’s managed to talk about half of what’d been bothering her and, honestly, Ashton too. He’ll mention the police and the stronger, heavier, more complicated things later. Maybe tomorrow, even.

 

Right now, he needs to go home and get ready for a party.

 

# 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've been extremely _blessed_ with how wonderful the feedback i've been getting is. doesn't matter if you're commenting here, or leaving me tumblr messages, i can't describe how much that means to me. i feel a little repetitive, too, but it's overwhelming how supportive you guys are. this story is specially important to me for many different reasons, and not being the only one caring about it is magical. i'd imagined some of my friends with whom i'd talked about this fic for weeks would be reading it (or rereading it), but to have so many different people being interested in this story honestly makes me so emotional. 
> 
> thank you.


	6. Chapter 6

He’s the second to be picked up, after a long shower and spending too long choosing a shirt and cologne. It feels like something big, and though he can’t shake off the feeling of something wrong, he still wants to be at his best when wrongness approaches.

 

Ashton kisses the top of Lauren’s head on his way out, wraps a flannel shirt around his waist as he gives them instructions to microwave their way through dinner. Harry rolls his eyes and murmurs, “Get off me,” when Ashton sort of hugs him, sort of laughs on his way to press a kiss to his little brother’s head, too.

 

Michael’s already in the car, on the passenger seat next to Ashley, and it’s just, he should have known. Michael has a bottle of beer around his fingers, kissing the neck as he takes a sip, and Ashton isn’t sure how many of these Michael’s had, but he chooses not to comment on it. What he should have known is this: Ashley’s hair is dyed pink, and her make-up is heavy dark, a loose white shirt on top of black bra that shows on the sides, jeans shorts and thick black thigh highs. She’s usually so much more laid back, grabs whatever’s on her way and rarely even bothers with that much make-up—not that there’s anything wrong with it, because there isn’t, it’s just.

 

He asks, careful, “Where is the party we’re going, ‘shley?”

 

She presses her lips together for a moment, then changes the gear to second, makes the turn to leave the street in a matter of seconds. “It’s a house party about fifteen away from here. We just have to pick Calum first.”

 

It doesn’t answer his question, though, but she doesn’t have to. He knows where they’re going. She turns up the music and Michael lets out a drunken and too loud laugh, raising his bottle and turning to look at Ashton. Ashton smiles, swallows back that sinking feeling, and when Michael offers him the beer, he takes it.

 

Calum doesn’t live too far from him, but he hadn’t been counting on Calum going to the party in the first place, even if he was eager to say yes on the phone. After what happened in that party over a month ago, Calum’s parents had been overprotective, encouraging him to stay home, taking him to Michael’s and whatever place he wants to go instead of just letting him take the car like they used to. It must have to do with his sister’s attempt to run away from home about two months before, but the incident at the party certainly had helped their paranoia.

 

Ashton didn’t blame them in the slightest. In fact, part of him sort of wished he could do what Calum’s parents tried doing, keeping all his loved ones in bubbles to protect them from all the evil in the world and in their hearts.

 

“Alright,” Ashley says, turning the headlights off and slowing the car down, putting her phone in Michael’s hand.

 

Absentmindedly, Ashton watches it all happen, like if he doesn’t take part, then later he won’t take any responsibility in how things turn out: Ashley parking the car almost in front of the next house, Michael calling Calum, saying they’re already there. Then comes the part that always makes him hold his breath, watching the light in Calum’s room turn off, then him climbing out the window, grabbing on the window panes to get to the ground, followed by his sister. Ashton hadn’t seen Mali-Koa in so long, it felt like she was a stranger breaking in their late Wednesday party, but then she jumps first, falling on her feet but nearly losing balance, and that fierceness is something he remembers always-present in her eyes. It’s her, he’s sure, even from afar, as she gestures for Calum to jump already, and when he does and falls on his butt, she holds out her hand and helps him up. Giggling, the siblings come their way.

 

They all greet each other with loud hellos and sloppy high-fives, Calum between Mali and Ashton in the backseat while Ashley buries her foot in the accelerator.

 

Ashton finds himself looking back at Mali time and time again, and he badly wants to ask her about why she came back at all. It’s a dark thought, he thinks, especially considering they’re all about to get drunk and high together, enjoy a fucking night off when it seems that all they do is suffer the pressure of school and society. But she had it all planned out, and still she backed off, and Ashton can’t stop searching her face for signs of history.

 

She barely seems to notice, though, is too busy trying to steal Michael’s beer, elbowing Calum when he makes the eventual joke about her hair being too long or her skirt being too short.

 

Looking over the window with a lazy smile on his face, Ashton feels that this is one of these days that might take him by surprise. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea, he thinks, absentmindedly, half-paying attention to his friends talking in the car, half-focusing on the beats of the Kid Ink song playing loudly, muffling their voices.

 

Ashley sings so loudly, sort of dancing on her seat, that it distracts him, makes him think that maybe he was wrong also about her motivations to go out.

 

But first instincts are always right, especially with people you’ve known for so long. Ashton closes his eyes, wonders vaguely whether Luke’s already sleeping or talking about Ashton to his brother Ben. The thought makes him nervous, fingers fidgety and throat dry.

 

Calum turns to him abruptly, tells him, “Tonight’s going to be great.”

 

It sounds so wishful thinking, that all Ashton can do is laugh.

 

Mali misunderstands that, laughs too.

 

#

 

The two-storey house is in the nicest area in town, painted white with an enormous pool on the backyard. Cars are parked poorly all over the front yard, people drinking with their hips resting against their cars or strangers’ cars and strangers’ bodies.Ashley leaves the car a block away, complains about drunken people throwing up on the car, as valid concern as any. They barely know anyone outside the house, but once they set foot inside, someone who graduated school in Mali’s year screams in joy, throws her arms around Mali’s neck, and Mali tells them to go on, that she’ll hang with her high school friends, catch up or something.

 

They greet a couple of people by the living room, and by the time they get to the backyard, Michael has a bottle of vodka in his hands that Ashton didn’t see him get, Calum a plastic cup of something unidentifiable, and Ashley has her arm around Ashton’s shoulder, yelling to an August Alsina song.

 

It’s the weirdest thing, people shoving cups his way, he shaking his head slowly. Ashton feels inappropriate, all his friends getting shit-faced, Ashley dancing and shaking her shoulders as she laughs, now Michael giving her a sloppy piggy back ride as Calum stumbles against him, insists on him taking a bit of his drink.

 

Ashton feels something weird in his chest, but it’s too faint and he can’t identify it, can barely listen to his own thoughts with the music so loud and so many people around him, shoulders brushing his as they pass by, people touching his back and hip to keep walking. He reaches for Ashley instead, touches her arm lightly, says, “Hey, what do you think, maybe you can drink and I’ll drive us home?”

 

“Nah, I’m fine,” she shakes her head, gets off Michael and takes the bottle of vodka from him, pressing it against Ashton’s chest. “You drink. You’re owned it.”

 

She’s smiling so wide, it feels wrong to not go with it, so he takes a sip, just to humour her, but then she’s watching him closely, raising her eyebrows in that mock-motherly way, and he’s throwing his head back holding the bottle, alcohol burning down his throat, tears coming to his eyes. He still laughs when he looks back at them.

 

Michael pats his back proudly, takes the bottle back, and Ashley smacks a kiss on his cheek before running up to the pool trampoline, out of nowhere and leaving Ashton blinking, staring. She doesn’t jump, just dances on it, but it’s enough to get people’s attention and wooing. Calum finds himself a lawn chair, pulls Ashton down by the hem of his shirt until they’re both sitting side-by-side, sharing a newfound bottle of beer, Michael disappearing into the crowd.

 

“It’s no good to mix vodka and beer,” he says, but his voice has turned slow and he doesn’t know whether Calum even heard him. Calum just chuckles, head resting against Ashton’s shoulder suddenly, and when Ashton gives him a tiny smile, he asks, “Why did Mali come? She never hangs out with us.”

 

Calum sighs heavily, takes another sip of the beer before turning to Ashton again. “She’s—listen, it’s just—everything’s really weird right now. What happened only happened to me, but still she’s—she’s suffering with it, too. Dad and Mum are treating us both like we’re twelve and vulnerable, fragile little creatures,” he drags the last word drunkenly, a bitter laugh after that. He raises his eyebrows at Ashton, putting a hand on his shoulder, “Not even to me that it happened, right? It was to your friend. It wasn’t to us. We have to keep reminding ourselves that nothing happened to us. Absolutely fucking nothing.”

 

Ashton doesn’t know how long they’ve been in the party, enough to have lost all their friends, but it feels as if they haven’t been there long enough for Calum to be this drunk, so maybe it isn’t all alcohol. Maybe it’s the sore taste in everyone’s throats, maybe it’s resentment for all that, and the thought that maybe Calum resents Luke, that maybe that’s why he keeps referring to him as Ashton’s friend instead, it makes Ashton blink slowly, jaw dropping a bit.

 

“It’s not his fault.”

 

He means it to come as decisive and brutal, can’t even explain how important this is to him, that Calum knows that if he’s read it right and that’s how Calum means it, Ashton will have none of it. But his voice cracks, sounds broken, like he may cry at some point soon. He clears his throat, but it still burns, so he drinks some beer to ease it, but only feels funnier.

 

Calum gives him a long look, but says nothing.

 

He shakes his head, murmurs, “It isn’t, Cal. Please, it isn’t.”

 

And he doesn’t know exactly what he sounds like, doesn’t even know if Calum hears him properly, because it sure seems like the music keeps going up and up, but either way, Calum puts an arm around him, takes the beer from him so he can take a few sips himself, finishing the bottle off. After a pause, he breathes out heavily, says, “We’ll be alright,” and it’s matter-of-factly, like undisputable data Ashton was too unfocused to catch in school, or things he catches Anne saying about medical procedures.

 

It’s a fact, and like many others, there’s no way to change it.

 

He hopes Calum is right, because right about now, he feels his head getting fuzzier, and raises from the lawn chair, says he needs another drink, and starts walking aimlessly around to find it.

 

Someone who went to school with him offers him another cup, and when he takes a sip, he tastes only burning vodka again. He makes a face, feels his head too dizzy already, murmurs, “I’ll pass,” with a half-smile, and when the guy starts conversation, he finds himself walking away, rude and distracted.

 

Some people have jumped in the pool already, and he absentmindedly looks at the blurry faces until he finds one that he recognizes, and he isn’t really shocked to find Ashley there, legs thrown over the neck of a guy Ashton knows far too well, him touching her knees and kissing her thighs as she giggles, clothes soaking wet, pink hair pulled up in a messy bun. Ashton sighs, looking at her, hoping maybe she’ll look back at him, but all her attentions are focused on the boy who owns the house and, against all Ashton’s warnings, also her heart. It’s her ex-boyfriend, who left her last year, someone who’ll inflict far too much pain, and Ashton can’t bring himself to see it.

 

He keeps on walking, finds Michael not long after that, dancing happily with a group of people Ashton’s never seen before. Maybe it’s the lack of inhibition that alcohol stripped him off of, but he walks straight to the heart of the group, smirks at the girl dancing with Michael, puts a hand on his chest to pull him back, asks, “What the fuck?” and laughs at how his voice sounds.

 

Ashton frowns, his head heavy, but Michael flashes him a smile.

 

“’m just having fun, Ash. I’ll introduce you to my new friends—”

 

“No, no, wait,” he begs, pulls Michael further away, Michael nearly losing his balance, almost falling and taking Ashton with him. They both giggle a little as they steady themselves, and then he adds: “How much have you drunk? And also, whatever happened to that girl you were seeing? Luke’s friend?”

 

Michael is shit-faced, far more than Ashton is, he knows, but it still catches him completely off-guard when Michael shrugs in the middle of the first question, and by the second, he’s reaching for Ashton to speak in his ear, too loud: “Couldn’t do it. I looked at her, and all I saw was the boy getting shot, over and over and over and over again.”

 

Ashton pulls back, blinking fast, staring at him.

 

In return, Michael shrugs again, an apologetic look on his face, a little drunken smile. But Ashton’s feeling bold in his honesties, holds Michael again, asks against his ear: “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you—I would have—I don’t know what I would have done, but, Mike, you don’t have to do this alone.”

 

“Oh, we don’t, is that right,” Michael laughs, head falling to Ashton’s shoulder, as if that’s the funniest thing he’s heard all night. Then he looks back at Ashton, and there’s that same fieriness in them that had bothered him about how Calum was looking dead-ahead before. “Funny, because I could swear that’s exactly what you were doing, buddy.”

 

Michael puts some distance between them with a look in his eyes that makes Ashton swallow dryly, a lump growing in his throat as he watches one of his best friends shoot him an awkward wink, turning away from him and falling on the arms of new friends. It’s odd, like being cut out of something great, and he never even wanted in in that drunken dancing of strangers. He isn’t even a big fan of dancing in the first place.

 

Snorting, he shakes his head, turns around.

 

His head is pounding lightly and his stomach feels funny, but still he puts one foot in front of the other, walks back to inside the house to assault the fridge and see if he can find anything in there to quieten his growling stomach. He figures Ashley’s ex-boyfriend owns him that much, for having broken her heart repeatedly time and time again, when he’s the one who picks up the pieces anyway. He’s halfway through the last piece of cake that was stacked in the back of the fridge when he hears a familiar voice behind him, saying, “Hey, you.”

 

Mali-Koa raises her eyebrows, a joint between her fingers. She takes a drag, sitting on top of the table, feet on the chair. Someone next to her complains about passing them the joint. She gestures for Ashton to sit next to her, and he goes, licking his thumb before taking another bite of the cake.

 

“Everyone’s being a jerk,” he decides, and Mali laughs quietly, looking at him intently, as if to ask, _is that so_. “Ashley is with her ex, and that’s why we’re all here in the first place. I think Michael hates me because I didn’t talk to him more about it, and I think Calum hates me just because it happened.”

 

Taking the joint back into her hands and gesturing dismissively so her friend leaves, Mali gets quiet for a moment, taking a long drag. Ashton looks at her, watches the white smoke coming out shapeless and thick through her nose, then she sucking on it through pouty lips.

 

He half-smiles, tells her: “No matter how much I smoke, I never seem to get around to doing the cool stuff,” he pauses, takes the last bite of the cake, then shrugs. “No matter how long I do anything, I never seem to get around to doing the cool stuff.”

 

Mali ignores his comment, passes him the joint.

 

Ashton sighs softly before holding it to his lips, sucking on it, smoke filling his mouth, holding it until it fills his lungs as well. He closes his eyes very briefly before opening his mouth and letting all the smoke go. It’s not too harsh, the taste of weed behind his teeth as he studies the thin paper-wrap. He’s nearly forgotten what he said at all to Mali, when she says:

 

“It’s not that anyone hates you. It’s just that everyone is so fucking screwed-up.”

 

When he looks at her, he has that weird sensation in his skin, like this is something important that he’ll never forget, her blood-shot eyes and how her hands reach back for the weed as she looks down, black winged eyeliner making her eyes look longer, even prettier. It makes her words sink harder, or maybe it’s just the weed and all the alcohol he’s mixed.

 

He sees his chance, and he takes it: “Why did you come back, Mali?”

 

She chuckles, shakes her head lightly with the joint hanging from her pressed lips. She holds it, blows out the smoke. “You can run away from everyone you love, but you can never outrun yourself. Better to come back to those who love you, then.”

 

#

 

Minutes turn to hours, and by the time he leaves the house again to go to the backyard, he wishes he’d stayed there for longer, smoked more than half a joint, because his mind is still going fast and dragged because of the alcohol, and he’s reminded why he doesn’t like it as much, why he’d rather just take a pill or something instead of poisoning his body with something so heavy, that makes him lose balance so often, feel his thoughts so loud, feel his body so alien.

 

Too many people are out there in the backyard. Some are still in the pool, but not Ashley and not her ex-boyfriend. Bitterness fills his mouth when he thinks they may be upstairs in his bedroom—not jealousy, no, but actual bitterness, because she deserves better and she doesn’t seem to fully grasp the concept of what deserving better even _means_. He stumbles his way to closer to the crowd, trying to see what it is about, and his breath catches when he sees Michael bending over, hands on his stomach as he throws up, people around him filming it, taking pictures. He pushes people to the side, yells at them to stop, but his voice sounds too small, and he can’t keep himself standing properly.

 

Michael doesn’t even see him, only falls to his knees and holds his head as if to make it stop spinning. Ashton knows the feeling, been there far too many times. But there are still so many people between them, and tears come to his eyes as he starts screaming Michael’s name. When he yells louder, tries elbowing people out of the way, someone pushes back.

 

Ashton frowns, feeling his heart quicken, his head pound harder. He doesn’t even know why he pushes the person further to the side, but then someone’s yelling, “What the fuck is your problem?” and he’s connecting his fist against the person’s jaw.

 

Wide-eyed, he takes a few steps back, holding his breath. He thinks maybe Michael looks at him, then, people clearing out of the way to close around Ashton, but at least that makes the humiliation stop for his friend, with the tiny cameras focusing on someone new.

 

Ashton barely registers it when the guy punches him in the stomach, only feels his body jolt forward, a gasp escaping his mouth. He’s too drunk to feel pain the way one usually does, it’s a slow-motion feeling backwards, fast fast and then slow, back the beginning, only a vague notion of what’s happening.

 

The guy doesn’t bother punching him again, but both his hands grab at Ashton’s shoulders, effortlessly pushing him to the ground. He falls, breathes out heavily, the guy yells something he doesn’t quite catch, people laugh but then turn around, to better and brighter things, and then.

 

Then he’s not there. Then he’s not on the floor but on the mud. It’s started raining and the music never lowers or stops, but there’s still one sound louder than it all: a bullet cutting air, hitting a boy in the head, and the boy is next to him even if no one is, and he can’t breathe.

 

Ashton can’t breathe for the life of him.

 

His mouth is open and he’s gasping for air, but it never reaches his lungs. His vision is blurry and he’s not sure whether he’s crying or just refusing to see the feet around him. Anxiety builds enough that he’s sure he’s hearing his own blood pulsing through his veins, his heart pounding against his ribcage loudly and painfully.

 

And the gunshot, Ashton swears, it’s on repeat, a moment to be lived over and over again until it kills him instead.

 

He feels something in his stomach sinking like he might be sick, all his muscles going rigid, but the feeling of being unable to breathe is too overwhelming, takes his attention off all the rest. On a more or less conscious level, he knows what this is, knows it’s not real, knows he can breathe just fine, but it doesn’t _feel_ like it. It feels like he’s dying.

 

Then he feels hands on his shoulders, the screaming of, “Ashton, Ashton, it’s okay, just,” and then the hands are on his face, turning him to the side so he can be seen.

 

Ashton has had panic attacks before. He knows what they’re like. But he’s never had one drunk, not like this, knows to blame the alcohol for how he sees Luke’s eyes in someone else’s, recognizes the voice but pushes it aside, because he can finally breathe, and it isn’t just air. It’s everything. It’s air and water and humiliation and everything mixed together. It invades his nostrils, raises goose bumps off his skin, makes his lungs cold.

 

Reluctantly and with the boy’s help, he sits cross-legged, hand hovering over his stomach, allowing himself to feel the pain kick in for the first time. He frowns, looks down, tries to steady his breathing.

 

The boy says something else he doesn’t catch, and when he looks up, he sees it’s not Luke, but Calum. Obviously, why would it be Luke? But still, still, still. He breathes in and out through his mouth, tries to make it better for him, but when Calum’s hand doesn’t leave his face like he’s worried out of his mind, Ashton finds it in him to say: “You have to find Michael. He was throwing up. I think he drank too much.”

 

Calum presses his lips together, looks over his shoulder, scans the crowd but ends up looking back at Ashton. “Did you hear what I said before?” he says instead. Ashton shakes his head no. “I said we have to find the others. Do you think you can help me with that? Can you stand?”

 

Taking Calum’s offered hand, he slowly stands up, the other hand still pressed to his stomach. He breathes in slowly one more time, before nodding. “Last I saw Mali she was in the kitchen, smoking one. I think she’s alright. I think I know where to find Ashley, she’s probably upstairs? But I need to find Michael first. You go find your sister and Ashley and we all meet by the car, yeah?”

 

“Bro, no way,” he shakes his head, “you’re coming with me. You’re in no condition to walk by yourself. You’re a wreck.”

 

And Ashton laughs, because he hadn’t noticed. “I suppose I am, ain’t I?” Calum just stares back, not seeing what could be funny about it. “Please? Just give me half hour to get Michael. I’ll meet you there with him. I promise.”

 

He can stand by himself just okay, maybe it’s the way the alcohol gives him something back, in return for having messed him up so badly tonight. His head hurts and his body aches, but still he knows he can do this one thing. Calum lets go of him, but still presses his lips together, unsure.

 

“I just—” he tries, but Ashton shakes his head.

 

“Cal, I’ll take him back. I promise I’ll find him.”

 

It shouldn’t feel this serious of a promise, he registers absentmindedly, like they’re in some post-apocalyptic world and not a party. Five weeks ago in that damn party where it all went to hell, it’d been so easy and automatic, Calum taking Ashley’s hand and Michael dragging Ashton out of his shock. They all met where they were supposed to, and everyone was okay, even if nobody was. Now they’re standing and the world isn’t mad chaos, but still they can’t trust each other with the simplest of promises.

 

Still hesitantly, Calum nods. He gives Ashton a quick hug before turning to go back in the house, saying he’ll find Mali and Ashley and be by the car as fast as he can. Ashton stands there for another second, watching Calum go, feeling like crying not knowing why.

 

He runs a hand over his head, breathes unevenly as he walks back to where he’d last seen Michael. He doesn’t see him immediately, takes him a couple of minutes before he sees the redhead sitting on the floor close to the fence. He sighs, sits next to Michael with a pained groan. Michael gives him a brief look, face washed in water and not yet dried, shirt damp in either sweat or water as well. He’s crying, though, so it doesn’t really matter.

 

Ashton parts his lips, feels something build in his throat, but his voice doesn’t catch up. Michael looks straight ahead, hands on the fence like he’s entertaining the idea of climbing over it.

 

“I’m not like you, Ash. I can’t bring myself to even—I don’t want to see him. I’m glad he’s alive, but I saw him die, you understand that?” he raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t look back at Ashton. His lips quiver, he closes his eyes for a moment. “It’s haunting, it’s what it is. I can’t take it off my head. No matter what I do, no matter I say, I still can’t take it off my fucking head. I lie in bed awake for hours, pushing the thoughts out of my head, listening to music or pretending to be somewhere else. And then, the second I close my eyes, I see it all happen again: the guard raising his gun to Luke, shooting him in the head, and Luke going down.” He pauses, finally looks at Ashton, raises his eyebrows, then joins his hands to make a gun of them. He closes one eye, points at Ashton’s head. “He fucking aimed.”

 

Ashton bites his bottom lip, stares at Michael and realizes he’s crying, too. Puts an arm around him to bring him closer, and when Michael’s face hits his chest, something happens and something clicks, because Michael clings to his shirt, crying so hard against him that his body shudders, his shoulders moving fast, gasping for air. Ashton now has both arms around Michael, pressing him close, trying to shield him against what’s inevitable, what’s taking them both down anyway, and Ashton never paid attention, never looked around and saw it wasn’t only him.

 

As an after-thought, he parts his lips, blinks a couple of times, stares at Michael. “Wait, wait, wait. You said it was a guard? A person working in the party? I thought—I thought Luke was having an argument with someone?”

 

Michael raises his head slowly, takes his time with deep breaths, wipes the tears off his face with the backs of his hands. “He was. They were both yelling, and the guard was close-by. Luke tried to reach for something in his jeans, the guard must have thought he had a gun, and he shot. He fucking shot him in the fucking head,” he laughs, a hysterical type of desperate laugh that leaves Ashton’s heart more shattered than before. “I mean, if he thought a stupid teenager was dangerous, he could have shot him, but why not on the leg or arm or anywhere else but on the head? He killed him, Ash. That kid will never have his life back. I don’t care his eyes are open, he just—he won’t.”

 

For a moment they’re both quiet, trying to pull themselves together, saw the open wounds, but it works poorly for both of them. Michael eventually looks at him again, and when Ashton looks back, there’s a confession tone to his voice when he says: “I care about him, Mike.”

 

Michael snorts, “I know. That’s what worries me sick.”

 

#

 

Michael tells him on the way to the kitchen, how he absentmindedly thought of drowning himself in the pool as he bent forward to wash his face, filled his mouth with water and chlorine, spat it out, glaring at all the people still having fun, not sobering up or feeling their hearts sink. It makes him feel weird like he should have been there instead of on the ground having a panic attack, but still he doesn’t tell Michael that, doesn’t tell him how it felt, how he thought he was going to die even if logically there was no threat. Instead he sighs and nods, steals a two litres bottle of water from the refrigerator, and they share it on the way to the car.

 

It’s both alarming and scary to get to Ashley’s car and nobody be there before them, but Michael sits on the trunk of the car, takes another sip of the water, tells Ashton they’ll be there in no time, and Ashton just believes him. He pisses on a bush of the guy’s house, aims at the flowers in the front yard just to spite him, can’t even bring himself to think properly of how much he hates the man who put it in Ashley’s head that she wasn’t good enough.

 

It’s not long after Calum, Mali, and Ashley, all come to the car as well. Mali looks sleepy, eyes small and yawning constant in her mouth, arms linked with Calum, who keeps looking back at Ashley, hair and clothes wet but not damp, eyes that won’t meet Ashton’s no matter how hard he tries.

 

They all get in the car without a word exchanged between them, Ashton taking the place next to Ashley, passing the bottle of water around until it’s finished and Michael is throwing it out the window. From the rear-view mirror, Ashton watches Michael put his elbow out the rolled down window, sigh heavily as he looks out. Mali puts her arms around Calum and closes her eyes, Calum smiling quietly next to his sister. When Ashton looks at Ashley and she still gives him nothing but silence punctuated by heavy breaths, he tells her: “You can tell me and us about it, if you want.”

 

She chuckles, shakes her head. “Nothing to tell, creampuff.”

 

Ashton sighs, allows himself to look down for a moment, but ten minutes in the car and Ashley’s hands are grabbing the steering wheel too tight, her knuckles white. He raises his eyes to her again, and her eyes are filled with tears, but she’s frowning, fiercely staring ahead.

 

Things like that, even if you see them coming, there’s still no stopping it.

 

Ashton sees it in her eye, how glassy they are, how shaky her hands are in spite of her tight grip on the wheel. Her eyes are facing forward but her heart’s not in it. Her heart’s breaking far too loudly for her to pay attention to Ashton’s voice yelling, “Ashley, the post!” or for the lights to be any indicative that she should stop or slow down.

 

On an instinct, his arm tries and shields her body, blocking her from colliding against the steering wheel. Still she throws her head forward then back with the impact, the car going off the road and hitting the post heavily. Ashton’s body jolts forward, but the seatbelt holds him, and he ricochets back.

 

Ashton hears screaming, thinks they all scream, but he still doesn’t hear his own voice.

 

His breath is heavy, his chest going up and down. His muscles feel immediately too rigid and his eyes too wide, like they might pop out if he doesn’t calm his heart. He breathes through his mouth, stares ahead to the post and the car with its front dented, split slightly in two. Smoke starts coming off of it, and when he looks at Ashley, she doesn’t look hurt, not more than he is anyway, but her eyes are unblinking and her hair is a mess, both hands still on the steering wheel, shaking harder now.

 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he hears Mali.

 

He turns ahead, and it’s just. Calum’s arms are both around Mali, but she must have hit Ashley’s seat, because her nose is bleeding and it must be broken. He parts his lips to say something, anything, but then there’s Calum, his eyelid split on the side where it looks like he tried to protect his sister, blood running down the side of his face, but still all Ashton can hear from Calum is, “Mali, look at me. Please, tell me you’re alright. Talk to me. Please, please, please,” a quiet chanting of those, _please please please_ , like the more he says it, the better his hearing will get, or the better Mali will feel.

 

“She’s not fucking alright, her nose’s bleeding a fucking load,” he hears Michael but doesn’t see him, but if he’s talking, then maybe he’s not as hurt, maybe then. Well.

 

Ashton parts his lips and tries to say something, but again his vocal cords betray him, and all he feels is weight against his chest, takes him a moment to realize this time there’s actual physical weight, Ashley pushing him out of the car. He reluctantly opens the door for himself, then helps Ashley out through his door, hers jammed.

 

Ashton doesn’t know what his voice sounds like, but he thinks it’s him who tells them all to leave the _fucking_ car _immediately_. And the car doesn’t blow up like in movies, smoke doesn’t turn into a blasting explosion, but it’s still enough to make him scared he doesn’t register his own thoughts, mind blank and set on semi-automatic.

 

It’s only a few minutes later, when Mali-Koa is crying with both hands on her face and covered in blood, Calum with one arm around her and blood staining his face as well, Michael sitting next to them in silence but not visibly harmed, and Ashley much to the side, sitting on the grass and staring at her ruined car and the post, that he realizes the phone in his hand. He stares down like it’s alien, swallows dryly, accesses the latest calls only to confirm he’s called emergency.

 

“We’ll be in the hospital in no time, and then we’ll get you checked over, okay?” he says to Mali, one hand on her shoulder. She doesn’t look at him, just nods quietly, choking down on tears, and Calum gives him a look, one he can’t read like many others, and all he can do is shake his head, press his lips together. “I’m sorry. I’m so terribly sorry.”

 

And he is. He truly is. For everything.

 

Michael presses his lips together, tilts his head to the side at Ashley, who still looks like what has just happened hasn’t sunk in. His voice sounds painfully sober when he says, “She was drunk, Ash. She could have killed us.”

 

Ashton doesn’t argue against that. He just breathes in slowly, tries to let the way air fills his lung tattoo into his memory, so he never forgets what it feels like to breathe, not when he’s on the ground, not when he thinks back of this. He’s breathing, in spite of everything, they all are, and that’s so important. He looks down and then away, at the lack of cars on the street and broken one they were all in minutes ago, and he feels his stomach sink hard. He wonders if that’s what Luke felt like, if it was all so fast he only felt the jolt backwards like Ashton felt the jolt forward, and there was never any time to be afraid of dying, death just an after-thought of what could have been but wasn’t.

 

He wonders if Luke felt relieved when he was still breathing even when the bullet was in his head, or if he just wanted to be done with it.

 

Ashton finds himself sitting next to Ashley on the grass, and when she refuses to look him in the eye, he starts paying attention to all the details, how her crying was never loud and full of sobs like his or really anyone he knows, but how every tear has always seemed to leave her eyes in a struggle, a fucking fight. She lowers her head, finally looking away from the car and staring at the grass instead, fingers fidgeting with it. Ashton stays quiet for a while, until he can’t, and then his voice comes back to him, like it’d never left.

 

“Are you okay?”

 

She snorts. “What does it matter? I broke Mali’s nose and split open Calum’s eyebrow,” Ashley shrugs, crying quietly, eyes still on the ground. Ashton presses his lips together, says nothing. “They won’t forgive me. I fucked up,” she forces a laugh, tilting her head to the side. “And all for what? For getting drunk and fucked in my ex’s bed, hoping that would get him back. You know what?” she raises her eyebrows but not her head, pulling at the grass fiercely. “His girlfriend called in the middle of it. He fucking picked up the phone, said he missed her. Some girl from college who made it out and I didn’t. He said that, when I started picking up my clothes and telling him I hated him.”

 

Ashton closes his eyes for a moment, sighing heavily, then puts an arm around Ashley’s shoulders, bringing her closer to him. She barely lets him, adds:

 

“I don’t even love him anymore. I just wanted to feel loved.”

 

#

 

Ashton knows Anne is pissed, but she doesn’t have the time to act so. He thinks absentmindedly of what it must be for her, finding her son and his friends coming to the hospital from a car accident, can’t tell if she’s glad or cursed to be on her shift when it happens. But Mali needs special attention and Calum needs stitches, and though all Michael’s got is a bump on his head, they still want to run an x-ray just to make sure, since the head is a dangerous place to hurt, but both Ashley and Ashton don’t get anything but prescriptions for painkillers for sore muscles and a half-assed attempt from a doctor Ashton doesn’t know to explain they’re both alright, but lucky that the windshield didn’t break, because if it had, they’d be hurt enough to stay the night.

 

But staying in the waiting room with Ashley’s quiet crying, mascara running down her face and smeared lipstick to the side of her mouth as her lips insist on pressing together so to not speak, it just won’t do for him. Alcohol hasn’t fully exited his system yet, there’s a pounding in his head and he feels his muscles too sore. In the bathroom, where he goes to splash some cold water on his face, he feels compelled to raise his shirt and take a look on his chest, and he isn’t exactly surprised to find a purple tracing where the seatbelt held his torso back, a little above the waistline another thick line.

 

Thinking about all the consequences of tonight makes him dizzy and weak on his knees. He doesn’t want to think about what Calum and Mali’s parents will say or whether Michael will be mad at Ashley for good, whether Ashley will forgive herself in the first place. Even thinking about the too bright light of the bathroom makes him feel like he should be somewhere else.

 

Ashton can’t tell what Anne will say once they’re alone with each other, but he senses it’ll be no good. Nothing about tonight was good, and at the same time, it’s funny because he’d sort of seen this coming anyway, but didn’t stop it. He can’t stop thinking about it, about the possibility that he just needed to see what they all were made of. What he was made of himself.

 

He’s not sure he likes the answers he’s got.

 

Feeling like a ghost in the hospital corridors, he avoids taking turns that will bring him to where he’s supposed to be. Instead he takes the elevator and goes up a few floors, ends up putting on a straight-face to try and look as sober as he can to the nurses and doctors that pass him by, until he’s there, head resting against the closed door of the hospital room, breathing in and out and trying to come to terms with the fact that this, too, should be a bad idea.

 

But it doesn’t feel like one, unlike going out on a Wednesday evening.

 

He opens the door just a tiny little bit, first to see if Luke’s alone, and then, since the lights are all out and the air conditioning is on, he licks his lips and hesitance, asks as quietly as he can, “Hm, are you awake?”

 

And he doesn’t expect an answer, not really, because it’s past five in the morning and he’s still a little drunk, has bathed in sweat and despair, and the cool air gives him goose bumps. It’s easier for him if Luke’s asleep, so he can just turn around and keep hiding from his friends and his mother so he doesn’t have to talk about it.

 

Luke raises his head with a yawn, though, asks, “Ashton? Is that you?”

 

Ashton half-smiles, feels some odd pride in Luke recognizing his voicein the middle of the night when there’s only a faint thin line of light entering the room. Must be all the time he spent talking to Luke in his sleep.

 

“Yeah,” he says, opening the door properly so he can walk in, closing it with a soft click behind him. He holds his breath as he walks to the end of Luke’s bed, Luke blinking lazily as he looks at Ashton. “I—I should leave. You have to sleep.”

 

He shrugs, lying on his side, buries his face in the pillow for a moment before looking back at him. “I’ve been sort of falling asleep and waking up all night long. I _can’t_ sleep. If you’re here, you can at least keep me company.”

 

A sad smile creeps to Ashton’s lips as he slowly walks to the armchair next to Luke’s bed. He stares at the floor for a second. “Have you told your doctors? They can raise the painkillers dosage, if the pain is keeping you from sleeping.”

 

Luke sighs, makes a face. “I have. That’s all they can give me, but it still—” he reluctantly raises one of his hands to his chest, presses it lightly. “It’s stupid, right? It was in my head, and I don’t even have headaches. But all because of a couple of broken ribs, my chest still hurts like hell.”

 

He meets Luke’s eyes with a half-smile that intends to be reassuring but probably just ends up looking lost and messed up. “Chest tubes are invasive procedure. But what matters is that it’s not in you anymore. You’ll be alright, even if it hurts for now,” and he doesn’t know if Luke wants it or if he’s just making a fool of himself, but still when he sighs softly, he reaches for Luke’s hand, and Luke brings it back from his chest, touching Ashton’s hand. “I’m sorry you’re in pain.”

 

For a second, they’re quiet, the light of the hospital room still turned off, their hands touching but not quite holding each other, fingers not sliding between each other’s hands like they’re holding back. Then comes Luke’s voice, like a murmur barely audible at all:

 

“Something tells me you’re not here because you missed me so desperately you couldn’t wait ‘til the evening,” he says, a shy smile on his lips.

 

Ashton holds his hand properly, stares at their hands as he speaks. “There was… a car accident,” he sighs, presses his lips when he feels Luke’s intent gaze on him. “I wish I could say we’re all okay, but we aren’t. Nothing major in terms of health, no one’s having to stay over at the hospital, but—I don’t know what will happen next.”

 

The answer is so immediate that it takes him by surprise, makes him stare back at Luke with raised eyebrows. “You don’t have to.”

 

He smiles weakly. Sleepy Luke telling him he doesn’t have to know what happens next, like it isn’t his responsibility to keep being the glue that holds all his friends together. Luke who’s in such pain he can’t bring himself to sleep for a full hour, offering him a helpful and understanding smile as he tells him about people falling apart and drifting away from each other, like somehow Ashton’s problems are perfectly worthy of his attention. Ashton can’t help but come closer, hand still holding Luke’s as he turns it slightly, careful with the butterfly needle as he kisses the back of Luke’s hand.

 

Luke says nothing, and he doesn’t look at him, can’t bring to, he’s too tired and his body hurts far too much as well. Instead he makes a pillow of his crossed arms on the side of the bed, keeps Luke’s hand in his the whole time.

 

Resting his hand on one of his arms, the one holding Luke’s hand now loosely, he looks up at him, Luke’s head tilted to the side so he can watch Ashton just as intently, and Ashton can’t really tell how this happens, or how devastatingly beautiful it is, that just silence and a light touch can bring all his demons to rest, his eyelids feeling heavy and his heart slowing down.

 

“I’m really glad you don’t hate me,” he says, quietly.

 

Luke chuckles, doesn’t break eye-contact. “Don’t be silly,” he squeezes Ashton’s hand.

 

It shouldn’t feel this soothing, just a squeeze back, a look of fondness and the lights off, but it does.

 

#


	7. Chapter 7

The first thing Ashton registers is that his eyes hurt, the pressure of his arm against them, especially the left one, making him make a face when sleepiness starts leaving his body. He groans moodily against the mattress, then he realizes he’s not lying in a bed, but sitting in an awkward angle, pillowing his head with his arms.

 

It’s a slow process, then it’s as if someone presses fast forward, the realization that he slept in Luke’s hospital bedroom, then the fact that he didn’t wake up on his own, but with someone clearing their throat. He yawns loudly, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hands as he straightens himself to sit up straight, looking at the source of the noise.

 

Turns out, the source of the noise is Mrs Hemmings, tilting her head to the side slightly, with annoyed pouty lips and suspicious narrowed eyes. Ashton immediately turns to Luke, who’s sitting properly himself, giving him an amused look.

 

He parts his lips to talk too fast, but he’s too thirsty from drinking too much last night and his throat is dry, and then comes all the memories from last night, the car accident, his friends, and how his muscles seem to be varying between feeling all sore and actually throbbing.

 

Luke clears his throat, too. “So, Mum, this is the friend I mentioned, Ashton?” he pauses, then with an overly dramatic tone that makes Ashton glare, he adds: “From _school_.”

 

If she remembers him at all, she doesn’t let on. Instead she nods slowly, forcing a smile on her lips that looks like it doesn’t quite belong there. “Of course,” she crosses her arms. “So your friend… has been sleeping here?” she frowns, turning to Luke.

 

Luke parts his lips, but he’s looking at Ashton, that expression still on his face, and Ashton can’t have that. Even though his body hurts and he honest-to-God feels like he can taste sand in his tongue, he stands up tentatively, trying to smile politely. “It was an accident. I’m sorry. Pleasure to meet you, though, Mrs Hemmings.”

 

Her suspicions seem to subdue, and her smile looks a bit more genuine. “No problem with me if Luke is okay with it,” she raises her shoulders a little in a half-shrug, then looks back at him, “I just—didn’t know. I thought he was alone,” then she turns her attentions back at Ashton, and he can feel the tiny approval in her voice when she adds: “Glad to know I was wrong.”

 

To add to the pile of things that he thinks he’s doing wrong, he also feels proud of how she looks at him then, but his eyes easily dart to the open window behind her, the sun hiding between buildings but there nonetheless. He chokes on a four letter word, looks down at the watch on his wrist. Ten in the morning. He didn’t make breakfast for his siblings, didn’t even see Anne after he came to the hospital.

 

He runs a hand through his hair, sighs softly, “I’m sorry, I really have to go,” he shoots her an apologetic look, then turns back to Luke, a hand touching his bed, pinkie finger dangerously close to Luke’s hand but not quite touching, close enough he can almost feel him, but. Ashton half-smiles. “I’ll come back after my shift at the shop, okay?”

 

Luke nods slowly, then stops himself. “I don’t know if I’ll be awake, though. I have a lot of physiotherapy scheduled for today, and that shit just drains me.”

 

Mrs Hemmings interferes, staring for a moment. “Language,” she says, but her tone is quiet, like it’s an instinct reaction, and she doesn’t really want to interrupt. When Ashton looks at her, she lowers her head and frowns again, looking out the window instead of at them.

 

He doesn’t know why that makes him smile a little.

 

Luke breathes in, shaking his head a little, looking at Ashton again.

 

“I—okay, so I shouldn’t come?”

 

Luke raises an eyebrow. “No, not what I meant. Do come. But if I’m sleeping like, stay over for a bit. I’ll probably not sleep for long no matter how tired I am, so just… wait for me,” he asks, but his cheeks get painted pink, and Ashton thinks it’s one of the most beautiful things to wake up to.

 

He feels his mouth shape into a smile before he can stop himself, shifts his weight to the other foot, nodding slowly.

 

“I’ll be here.”

 

He says goodbye both to Luke and to Mrs Hemmings, and when he reaches the corridor, only then, he allows himself to touch at the bruises on his chest and just above his waistline, his shoulders hurting the most, and he swears under his breath, shaking his head, and going to the receptionist to look for Anne.

 

#

 

The thing is, he’s ready for screaming and blaming and fingers pointing at him, even if she never comes through with those. Still it catches him off guard like a sucker punch when she comes his way, and instead of frowning and glaring, she pulls him to her, both arms around his shoulders even if he’s taller than her, sighing softly and kissing his cheek.

 

He pulls away with a confused face, and Anne shakes her head, serious expression on her face but still not giving away much. He tucks his hands into the pockets of his skinny jeans, feeling dirty with seat and booze, dreading a shower even more than a real bed. “I went to visit Luke, ended up falling asleep. Sorry if I worried you.”

 

Anne rolls her eyes. “I knew exactly where you were. That’s not—” she interrupts herself, shakes her head again, touches his shoulder tentatively, squeezes it a bit until he looks her back in the eye. “Love, tell me how you’re feeling.”

 

Ashton parts his lips, blinks a couple of times.

 

What he thinks is that only with Anne would this roll, him getting still a bit drunk to the hospital after a car accident, disappearing for hours to another person’s bedroom, missing his morning duties, and still get her worry instead of her scowl. He’s not sure he deserves it, but still he nods, looks around for good measure anyway before asking, “What about them?”

 

“They’re all home,” she says in a sweet tone, which is how he knows things aren’t looking good. Her hand is still on Ashton’s shoulder, rubbing his upper arm with pressed lips like she’s holding back tears, and then he thinks, _Oh._ He’s ready to babble on about how really, he’s sure, and it didn’t even get close to him dying, and she really shouldn’t worry, when she talks again. “I’d never seen Joy and David that way, Ash. I mean, David started crying immediately when he saw his children getting stitches, launched to them, nearly punched the doctor away when he said he still needed some work with Calum’s eyelid. Joy was so angry, son, kept yelling at them, loud enough people started to stare. I don’t blame her, not at all, especially after the stunt Mali-Koa pulled last summer—”

 

“They weren’t supposed to be at the party,” he says weakly, looking back at her. “That’s why Joy was so pissed, I mean. Because they sneaked out of the house without their permission.”

 

Anne shakes her head in silence for a while, and for a split second, Ashton thinks she’ll finally call him on it, say that he shouldn’t have let Calum and Mali just go behind their parents’ backs like that when they obviously meant well. But then she stops herself, adds instead: “Michael was kept here the longest, you know. How ironic, Karen working on radiology for private practice and her son stuck in a hospital getting an x-ray of his skull,” she snorts, “Karen was—she kept arguing with every doctor, you know? Both Daryl and Michael just wanted to go home,” she raises her eyebrows, looks away, “Michael kept saying, _I just want to go home, Mum, please_ , but then she’d only go on a rant about how sleeping after hitting your head is bad news.”

 

Ashton takes in her words like they’re poison. These are all things he was supposed to have been around for, to try and tell Joy that Calum and Mali were _fine_ and if it wasn’t for Calum, he would have died—because an unattended panic attack sure feels a lot like dying—and he loves them so, so much, and please don’t be mad at them, it’s all Ashton’s fault, he should have stopped them. But they were so excited to go out, and he just thought. He just thought, but he shouldn’t have, and he’s sorry. And he should have been around to give Michael his support, entertain Daryl with old jokes he’s heard a thousand times because he knows how Daryl gets nervous whenever Michael might be hurt, how he starts crying and saying Michael’s his only son.

 

And the worst: he bites the insides of his cheeks for a moment before breathing out heavily, looking at Anne.

 

“And Ashley?”

 

She’s quiet, like she knows what this means, what it all means.

 

Then: “Nobody came for her. She’s overage, so technically nobody has to. She stuck around for a while, but eventually she left, just a prescription for muscle pain in her hands. She was fine by medical standards, but Ashton, she wasn’t okay in the slightest.”

 

Ultimately, if he wasn’t there for anyone else, he should have been there for his best friend. He should have told her it’s all going to be alright even when he’s not sure himself. He should have stayed with her, waited for doctors to examine their friends in the waiting room, sharing a latte and insecurities, pulled her close to him like he had a million times before, kissed her pink-haired head and hummed softly until she fell asleep.

 

Instead he ran away to where he could ignore the rest of the world and find comfort. He ran to Luke.

 

He hardly thinks Luke himself would think his choices are very good.

 

“I have to talk to her,” he sighs, both hands running over his head and then meeting at the back of his neck. “To all of them. I need to—”

 

“What you need to,” she says, her tone suddenly grave. “Is to go home, take a long shower, eat whatever you feel like eating. Your shift starts in a couple of hours, and you’ll have the house to yourself. Please, just treat yourself a little bit. You’ve just come out of a car accident without a scratch. Appreciate the little miracles.”

 

He parts his lips to argue, but decides against it. Mothers know best.

 

She hugs him one last time before he leaves, breathes heavily against his chest and tells him to take a taxi and pay when he gets home, even though she probably knows he’ll just end up taking the bus to save money instead. Anne tells him she loves him before he goes, and he replies with two I love yous.

 

#

 

Again, he feels like he’s set his body on semi-automatic. He does what Anne tells him to, takes a long shower to wash away everything from last night, cooks lunch as if it’s for a romantic date, eats listening to his favorite playlist on _Spotify_ , and by the time he’s brushed his teeth and washed his face again, hair slicked back to get out of his face and stares at the mirror, he thinks he might be ready for today.

 

As usual, he goes to work by bike, parks it in front of the shop and secures it with a chain. Stepping inside, he feels the cool air, Ashley absentmindedly going through something in her phone, pink hair pulled up in a messy ponytail. She barely looks there, hair unwashed and face looking older, like she didn’t remove the make-up from last night, just reapplied it.

 

If she sees him approach, she chooses not to comment on it, not to raise her eyes from her phone. He still holds his breath, hands stopping in the counter just a bit away from hers. “Hey.”

 

She raises her eyes, half-smiles. “Hey, champion. You smell good. Cologne or shower?” she teases, cocking an eyebrow.

 

Ashton presses his lips together, pausing for a moment, and his eyes must be insistent if she looks away, attentions back on her phone. “Have you tried talking to them?”

 

She nods her head yes, quietly.

 

“How did it go?”

 

There should be a special place in hell for people who ask rhetorical questions just for the sake of asking them, because it sounds appropriate. He knows the answer to that, of course; may not know the details for sure, the exact words and the expressions on their faces, but he knows it went nowhere good, if she probably didn’t sleep, didn’t even take a shower as far as he can tell. He still waits for an answer, though, hopes his eyes can show her something compassionate and something kind.

 

For all he’s argued with himself lately about what has and hasn’t been his fault, he knows, for once, that the crash wasn’t. And the worst part about it being someone else’s fault for a change, is that he wishes desperately it was his, because then at least he could try and fix it.

 

“Calum doesn’t pick up his phone. Mali-Koa just went, like,” She chokes on a little laugh, like this could be funny even though it isn’t. “ _You ruined our lives_ or something,” she rolls her eyes, bends over a bit over the counter so she’s staring directly at her hands over it. “Michael just kept asking me over and over again whether I was drunk, didn’t even let me try and say anything else. And what am I supposed to say? I was. He hung up, then.”

 

He sighs, searches his head for something to say that could make Ashley feel better, tries to think of ways that he could make them all come together again, but it feels too much. He parts his lips and hopes something good will come out, but she stops him before he even tries, gives him a look that interrupts his thoughts.

 

“Can you appreciate the irony? I just wanted to feel wanted, and now none of my friends want me anymore,” she snorts, staring at him.

 

Ashton shakes his head, goes behind the counter, pulls her to him, kisses the top of her head against her protests to be hugged. “I’m here,” he says.

 

#

 

This Thursday is busier than it usually is, or maybe that’s just how seriously they’re taking their unserious job, just so they don’t have to deal with everything else. Ashton keeps glancing back at Ashley, but she’s dead-serious and trying so hard to keep smiling at customers and cracking unfunny jokes, that he looks away each and every time she looks back at him.

 

By the time their shift is over, he offers to go grab a beer with her, but she shakes her head with a bitter smile, says, “My car isn’t—I didn’t come by car. They took my license,” she rolls her eyes, crossing her arms suddenly, pressing them against her chest. “Dad’s coming to pick me up. You go, I can wait alone.”

 

And it doesn’t feel fair, that she should wait by herself, but she’s staring at him in a way that leaves him no choice, so he kisses her forehead and gives her another tight hug, murmurs next to her ear, “I’m a phone call away. Always.”

 

He’s on his bike pedalling fast to his house, thoughts elsewhere.

 

The best thing about Luke moving to a room is how he can always go home first, take a shower, grab something to eat. It gets expensive, eating in the hospital every day—more than that, he needs this time, slowing down before going somewhere where his heart will fasten anyway.

 

What’s on his mind is all that happened yesterday, and how slowed hours make it feel like it was ages ago already. Ashley’s so wrecked, and he has no idea how to fix her. He keeps thinking back of the look in her face, words dragged, and it takes him back to when he felt just like her, but for nothing specific.

 

He glances at his wrists, feels his chest heavy.

 

It’s so selfish, letting relief fill his veins that this isn’t who he is anymore, that it almost escapes him how light he feels, almost like he can just take off and fly, that though nothing’s really perfected and guilt still crushes him down, he doesn’t want to go back to that place at all. He doesn’t even feel the magnetism anymore, pulling him to razors and pain. Instead it pulls him to hospitals and butterfly needled hands.

 

“Hey,” he says as he walks in the house, Harry sitting in front of the TV, caught in the middle of yawning when Ashton closes the door behind him. “What are you watching?”

 

“Dragon Ball,” he answers easily, then frowns at Ashton. “Michael’s in your room.”

 

Ashton tilts his head to the side, parts his lips but just nods. He tries for a smile, says, “Addicted, aren’t we,” as he messes his little brother’s hair, ignoring his loud and exaggerated complaints as he makes his way up the stairs.

 

His hand is hesitantly on the handrail when he hears Harry clear his throat, and then the TV volume goes down. He stays where he is for a second, back to his brother but paying attention, and that’s when Harry speaks.

 

“Mum called, told us about the accident,” his voice slow and dragged, like he’s not sure he’s using the right words, but has rehearsed them all the same. “You’re alright, right?”

 

Ashton turns to look at his brother again, Harry turned to him with his hands grabbing at the back of the couch, careful look on his face but knots of his hands white anyway, just to betray his bravado. He half-smiles, nods.

 

“I’m alright, yeah.”

 

Harry nods, too, like he’s telling himself everything’s going to be okay, since nobody is. Then, as an afterthought, he says, “Lauren cried a lot when Mum called. I wasn’t supposed to have heard, but she was on the phone with her friend Julie, and I heard her saying she was afraid you’d die like Dad did.”

 

Frowning, he tilts his head to the side, staring back at Harry. “Our father didn’t die. He just left.”

 

His little brother shrugs, sighs softly. “I know. I think she tells other people he died because it’d be easier for her if he had,” he pauses, looks away. “But anyway, what I meant is, she was scared. And she yelled at me when I tried to talk to her, even if all I was going to say is that she should get ready for school soon or we’d be late.”

 

Ashton presses his lips together, nods dutifully, thanks Harry for telling him in a murmur, then reinforces that yes, he _is_ alright, and they all are, and really, it was nothing to be worried, just a distraction and then boom. But not really boom, because they _are fine_. Harry looks convinced enough, turns his attentions back to the TV, now the volume back to its original deafening glory.

 

He remembers being Harry’s age, skateboarding until he was covered in bruises. That was his way to escape reality. It worries him that maybe Harry’s doing the same, just with TV instead. Even if the bruises aren’t visual, it doesn’t mean they’re not there.

 

But he can’t think about that now. He takes a deep breath, goes up the stairs, and even though he knows Michael’s waiting for him, he makes a detour, goes to Lauren’s bedroom first, knocks on the door and tells her it’s him.

 

“Wait,” she yells, and in a second she’s opening the door, staring at him wide-eyed and biting her bottom lip, but when he spreads his arms she practically launches at him, arms wrapped around his neck and face buried in his shoulder when he lifts her off the ground, closing his eyes in hugging her too.

 

“I’m alright, I promise, nothing happened,” he half-laughs, but it sounds weird and unlike him, so when he puts her down, she’s giving him an odd look.

 

“I thought you—”

 

“But I didn’t.”

 

Lauren nods slowly, like it’s sinking in. She’s tearing up but still gracefully holding it together, and he wants to tell her she doesn’t have to hold back, that for all that he’s cried he thinks she’s pretty safe in crying of happiness, too. Except it would feel untrue, because this isn’t happiness filling her eyes. It may be relief, too, but she’s scared. She still is, and he doesn’t know how to stop it.

 

“Mum said Ashley was driving,” she says, matter-of-factly, raising her eyebrows, and her tone’s so bitter that she looks and sounds older, like he should consider his words around her.

 

He cocks an eyebrow. “It wasn’t her fault, Lauren.”

 

She snorts. “Then whose?”

 

He sighs heavily, runs his hands over his head because he hasn’t got a proper answer for that. “Don’t hold it against her.”

 

“Oh, but I am,” she says, lips in a thin sort-of-smile, punctuated with bitterness that makes her look broken. “If something serious had happened to you, I would’ve gone after her. You’re alright, good, but you could’ve—” she stops herself abruptly, breathes in then out slowly.

 

And he definitely wants to argue against it, his thirteen year old sister talking about going after someone like there’s anything she could have done to bring Ashley down, but the thought that she might want to still stinging too much. It hurts in a different and unseen way, because he can’t hold Ashley accountable for whatever happened when her heart was that broken. And he can’t leave her alone, because no matter what happened to him, she was still by his side. He shouldn’t have expected Lauren to understand, but still hearing that and recognizing the newfound hatred in her eyes, it makes him weak.

 

He parts his lips, decides against it, just shaking his head.

 

“I’m alright,” he ends up repeating.

 

“So you keep saying.” She pauses, looks around, rests her weight against the side of her door. “Listen, did Harry tell you Michael came over? He’s in your room, waiting for you. You should go.”

 

And he nods, because there isn’t really anything else to say.

 

He feels her eyes burning on the back of his neck as he walks to his room in the end of the corridor, protective like someone might attack him and he may go down. It’s pathetic, really, how he’s found a way to make his little sister and little brother worried about him, when he should have been the shield protecting them against that type of thing.

 

Ashton sighs, opens and closes the door behind him, Michael lying on his bed with his shoes on, Ashton’s pillow bent behind his head, fingers tapping on the little screen of his phone.

 

Michael raises his eyes at Ashton, and Ashton’s eyes dart back to Michael’s Converses, Michael rolling his eyes and kicking them off as he moves to sit cross-legged on the bed while Ashton makes his way to sit next to him.

 

“I’m sorry,” is the first thing Ashton says.

 

Michael stares at him, cocks an eyebrow. “What for?”

 

Ashton snorts.

 

He’s sorry for so much. He’s sorry he’s tried so hard to protect everyone and still failed each and every time. He’s sorry it was Michael who watched Luke get shot in that party and it’s scarred him that bad. He’s sorry Luke went down in the first place, was alone until the paramedics arrived, maybe still conscious and in pain before the surgery. He’s sorry Michael had to take care of him that night, and nobody took care of Calum or Ashley or, well, Michael. He’s sorry he avoided them all for a whole week, because he couldn’t handle himself. He’s sorry he left them all alone by that full week. He’s sorry for not telling them about seeing Luke and then again, he’s sorry for not keeping an open communication with Anne. He’s deeply and impossibly sorry that he freaked out when he heard about Luke’s infection, was cruel to Anne about Harry’s game, and brought up his father. He’s sorry he’d never noticed Luke before that party, he’s sorry he was never there to protect him, either. He’s sorry he still hasn’t brought up the police or the shooter to Luke and Mrs Hemmings is still going to bed every day thinking the guy is out there. He’s sorry he even suggested going to a party, because he was scared and feeling self-destructive, and he’s impossibly sorry he had a panic attack instead of taking care of his friends.

 

In a nutshell, he’s sorry for not having been the protector he once took pride in thinking he was. He’s sorry that Lauren cried and that Harry’s worried, and that he’s not even filling the father role anymore that he thought he could, making his siblings feel safe against all odds.

 

He’s sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry.

 

Instead of saying that, he kicks his shoes off too, sits with his back against the wall and his knees bent, one arm resting against one of them, sighs softly, says, “You mean you’re not pissed at me for disappearing when we got to the hospital?”

 

Michael rolls his eyes. “Don’t be fucking ridiculous. It’s not like I could have sat down with you and talked much. I was in and out of every single type of scan you can think exists, and then waiting for them. I was with Mum and Dad the whole time. I wasn’t alone.”

 

He sighs, looks at him. “Still. I should’ve been there with you. Or with Calum and Mali. Or with Ashley. Anyway, not hiding in Luke’s room,” he chuckles, because it sounds funny even if it wasn’t and isn’t.

 

Michael smiles understandingly, shakes his head with a snort but then the smile stays there. “We were all making sure we were still in one piece. So were you.”

 

Slowly, Ashton nods, like he’s not sure how to work around this that happened. He raises his eyes at Michael, looks him in the eye with a cocked eyebrow. “Did they find out?”

 

“Find out what?”

 

“That your head is completely empty?”

 

Michael calls him a fucking douche, grabs Ashton’s pillow and hits him across the face with it, making Ashton laugh harder. Michael laughs, too, of course, then quietens himself, slides down on the bed so he’s lying again, even if it means throwing his feet on Ashton’s lap.

 

“The most pathetic thing is, all I had was a bump in my head, and both Calum and Mali were bleeding like hell, and I still stayed longer in the hospital than them,” he chuckles, and Ashton sighs, pressing his lips together. “They found nothing wrong with me or them. But Mali broke her nose and Calum has stitches all over his eyelid and eyebrow area, plus their parents were less than pleased that they were sneaking out. Have you tried calling Calum?” Ashton shakes his head no. “Well, you can’t. They confiscated their phones earlier today.”

 

“Fuck.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

For a while, they’re quiet, both confiding to themselves things they don’t dare say out loud, trying to organize what’s in their heads and how to make it work outside them. Then Ashton turns to him, frowns, asks what about Michael’s parents, whether they are acting as protective. Michael shrugs.

 

“I didn’t lie so I could go to the party. They knew I was going. They just gave me a bit of a hard time, because, oh, I don’t know, our designated driver was drunk off her ass?” he raises his eyebrows, but Ashton knows to keep quiet this time. Michael chuckles. “I mean, don’t get them wrong, they’re being overprotective. They drove me here, don’t want me taking rides from anyone,” he rolls his eyes. “They’ll pick me up later, I think. And, like, Dad’s a mess, but Mum’s being rational about it. We’re alive, I guess that’s all that matters. But I’m pretty sure if Mum sees Ashley, they’re going to have a talk.”

 

Ashton shifts on his place uncomfortably. “I wish people would cut her some slack.”

 

Michael raises his eyebrows, stares at Ashton.

 

In the end, he knows they’re all right to be pissed, he just wishes they weren’t, because if they aren’t, it’s one less thing to worry about. Then at least Ashley’s got her life more or less going somewhere, even if she was falling apart way before the car accident, like it feels they all were.

 

He parts his lips, a question stuck in his throat about last night, Michael drunk and crying, telling him about the guard shooting Luke in the head and the scene playing in a loop behind his eyelids whenever he closed his eyes.

 

What he asks instead is: “Know that you got my brother obsessed with Dragon Ball? It’s all Harry’s watching these days.” Michael chuckles, bows down in mockery. “Ah, like, do you feel like watching it?”

 

“Dragon Ball?” he raises his eyebrows.

 

“Yeah. Z, I think. Dragon Ball Z, I think is what he was watching.”

 

It shouldn’t surprise him how wide Michael smiles, suddenly excited like the past twenty-four hours never existed. He’s up in a second, offering Ashton a hand to help him up. Ashton says he’ll meet him downstairs, makes a stop by Lauren’s room to ask if she wants to join them, and though she makes a face when he says what they’re watching, she still goes.

 

Ashton microwaves some popcorn, and the four of them squeeze in the couch, passing it around, Michael teasing Harry half the time, yelling and pretending to be Goku, and whenever Harry corrects him to some attack he’s pronounced wrong—“It’s Kame-hame- _ha_ , not Kame-hame- _hoe_ , and Ashton, why are you laughing?”—Lauren shoots Ashton an approving look, resembling so much Anne that Ashton hopes he never forgets this.

 

#

 

The hospital walls welcome him, give him a strange sense of familiarity that he supposes makes sense by the end of the fifth week walking down these halls, but still. Anne’s too busy with work, so he goes straight for Luke’s room, and when he passes Mrs Hemmings in the corridor and she gives him a tiny acknowledging smile, he just blinks a couple of times, managing a weak wave.

 

He can’t pinpoint the exact moment when he was comfortable with his heart beating faster as he gets closer to Luke’s room.

 

Knocking on the door, he waits a little bit, then opens the door tentatively, “Uh,” escaping his throat as he parts his lips shyly, standing as if to ask for permission to go on.

 

Luke’s sitting straight on his bed, focused frown on his face as his fingers slide down a phone screen. When he registers someone else in the room, he blinks a couple of times, looking up and meeting Ashton’s eyes with a smile.

 

“Hey, you.”

 

Ashton smiles back, walks in, closes the door behind him. “Hi. I—think your Mum walked by me in the corridor?”

 

Nodding, he puts the phone on the side of his bed, where the metal that could keep him from falling meets the mattress. “Went home to have dinner with one of my brothers and his girlfriend. Think Dad’s coming later to spend the night, but not for a couple of hours, probably.”

 

Nodding, he walks to the end of the bed, hands holding the metal around it as he bids his time. “And did you have dinner?”

 

Wrinkling his nose, Luke nods, “Unfortunately, yes.”

 

Shifting his weight to the other foot, he cocks an eyebrow. “What happened with the speech on how the hospital food is not so bad?” he teases, biting back a smile, and Luke rolls his eyes, throwing his head back a bit. Ashton chuckles, finally going to the armchair next to Luke’s bed and taking a seat. “But can you eat, like, normally?”

 

Luke nods, looking away. “Anything, basically. Which means you can bring me a chocolate or two whenever you feel like it.” Ashton raises his eyebrows with a smile on his lips, staring, and Luke laughs, shaking his head. “I mean, that was a joke.”

 

“No, it wasn’t,” Ashton raises his voice a bit, can’t help it with the laugh that follows. “You want me to bring you food. Chocolate, to be specific, for whatever reason,” he cocks an eyebrow and Luke just shrugs with his head low and a timid smile on his lips. Ashton lets fondness take away the mockery from his voice. “I’ll think about it.”

 

Luke gives him a side-look that makes him hold his breath, but then Luke’s looking at him properly again, teeth sinking on the side of his bottom lip, letting go with a sigh. “So, did you manage to get some sleep before your shift at the shop, or?”

 

Oh. That.

 

It’s his turn to tip his head back, but not because anything about that is funny. He does it out of sudden tiredness, like he hadn’t quite realized up to now just how heavy his own body was. Staring at the perfectly white hospital bedroom ceiling, he sighs softly, shakes his head no.

 

Luke’s quiet for a moment, and Ashton could swear that so is his head.

 

Then comes Luke’s voice, a shy quiet murmur that makes Ashton look. “If you want me to tell what happened, I’ll listen.”

 

There’s absolutely no doubt on that, and this should tell him something about the boy he befriended in odd circumstances, collecting fears and concerns to distract him from different ones. Still the offer makes his chest warmer and calmer, makes him breathe when it’d felt like he was holding his breath underwater. It’s weird, letting it go, but he needs to—he _needs_ to talk about this and everything, and Luke’s there, willing to listen and still somehow keeping his head low, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to ask the question.

 

He can’t help to chuckle, shake his head a little.

 

“Only if you don’t mind.”

 

Luke doesn’t, makes sure he knows he doesn’t, so he tells him everything, save the panic attack that really sounds like it has no place in the events of the evening. He tells about it while he stares at the wide window, only the glass closed but a view to the dark sky making sure it never escapes him how late it is.

 

He tells Luke about how Calum and Mali weren’t supposed to go to the party in the first place, doesn’t mention the party from before, blames the parental overprotection solely on Mali-Koa’s attempt to leave it all behind and run away. He says his best friend had been acting odd all day and he should have known, but he ignored it and went with it because he thought he’d needed this, too. He tells him about going there, about the odd sense of wildness in everyone’s eyes, like they were meant to break the law and themselves, how they ended up breaking each other a little instead, everyone too wasted and broken, Ashley included.

 

But she shouldn’t be. She was driving.

 

“I barely remember the car accident. It isn’t even that I was so drunk, because I’d sobered up a little by then, had drunk about a whole bottle of water by myself, some time had passed, too,” he presses his lips together, glances briefly at Luke without really registering his expression before looking down at the floor. “What I remember is the crash itself. The jolt forward, the impulse of trying to hold Ashley back so she wouldn’t fly through the rear-view window,” he chuckles dryly, shakes his head. “We were all wearing seatbelts, of course. But it’s an instinct, like I guess was Calum’s to try and protect Mali and Mali to try and protect Calum. They both ended up with blood in their faces,” he raises his eyebrows, but still can’t look at Luke. “I’m the only one speaking to Ashley.”

 

Through it all, Luke listens in silence, but when he pauses this time, some finality in his voice, Luke lets himself speak, voice serious like Ashton doesn’t remember it ever being. “And you’re not hurt?”

 

“I mean,” he snorts, meeting Luke’s eyes. “Just some bruises because of the seatbelt, but that’s all,” he gestures at the general chest area, then shrugs. “Muscles are sore as fuck, I’ve been taking painkillers every couple of hours, but in a couple of days I’ll probably feel nothing. It’s nothing close to stitches or a broken nose.”

 

Luke rolls his eyes, shakes his head.

 

“What?” Ashton raises his eyebrows, sort of laughs. Luke stares at him, an annoyed look in his face. “What is it?”

 

“You do realize you’re allowed to feel pain as well, don’t you?” he asks, tone still serious and borderline offended, and Ashton just blinks in response, because it isn’t anything he could have predicted and it leaves him reticent. “It’s just—it’s not a competition of who’s got it worse, Ashton. You’re entitled to whatever you feel, too.”

 

Tilting his head to the side a little, he lets that sink, and he’s not sure he can, not immediately anyway, but it still makes him feel something important, a mix of strength and understanding, as Luke offers him an insistent look of either support or truth, or, again, a mix of the two. But Ashton would have it any way.

 

“You said you’d have a busy day with physiotherapy, so how did that go?”

 

Luke throws his head back again, makes an annoyed noise loud enough that it makes Ashton laugh. “I fucking hate it. It’s painful, it’s tiring, and if I felt strong enough for that, I swear to God I would punch everyone.”

 

Ashton pulls his hands to his chest as if in defense. “Whoa, killer.”

 

Laughing, Luke shakes his head. “But it’s good, I mean, look,” he says, and then, frowning, he raises both his hands, almost high enough to level with his shoulders. Immediately after dropping them, he looks at Ashton, checking the level of pride in his eyes, probably, and Ashton must give him exactly what he was hoping for, because he grins. “ _And_ Mum brought me my phone back. Doc says it could be good for my thumbs and fingers and general motor coordination. At least it’s a start,” he shrugs. “I can’t overuse it, though,” he says, already reaching for it. Ashton parts his lips, wants to help if he can, but then Luke is shoving the phone in Ashton’s hand. “Put your number in.”

 

Ashton just raises his eyebrows with a smile, is ready to ask for the password when he realizes it’s unprotected— _obviously_ —and as he types his number, he asks, absentmindedly, “Are you going to call me at three am when you’re high on meds to tell me you need a partner?” When he looks at Luke, he’s staring, looking a little nervous with his wide blue eyes and his pink cheeks. He raises his eyebrows, biting back a smile. “The Arctic Monkeys song? _Why’d You Only Call Me When You’re High_?” Luke shakes his head, a little lost.

 

Ashton blinks a couple of times, in absolute horror.

 

“Before you judge me, I did just wake up from a coma.”

 

He snorts, shakes his head. “Don’t! It was barely three weeks!” Luke laughs loudly, so does Ashton, and he _does_ think it’s a little strange, to be laughing about something as serious as this, something that made him feel like a walking dead person with nothing going on in life. But it doesn’t _feel_ strange, so he just goes with it, shakes his head when Luke’s laugh is the last to die. As an impulse, he says: “I’m making you a playlist. It’s decided.”

 

Luke does that thing he does sometimes, teeth scratching his lip, sucking it in as he ponders his words carefully. “Yeah? Are you calling it Just So I Can Make References To Songs?”

 

He makes a face, staring, putting Luke’s phone down on his lap. “That’s a terrible name for a mix, not to mention terribly long. More like, An Attempt To Understand The Lip Thing,” he mimics Luke, frowning slightly, Luke doing it again without really seeming to realize.

 

Letting go of his lip, Luke opens his mouth in surprise, now cheeks definitely painted a shade redder. Ashton can’t help the smile on his lips to take him off guard like this, the feeling too strong to pay attention to how his heartbeat quickens at the sight.

 

“That’s just as long, if not even more terrible,” he retorts, tone sharp that only makes Ashton laugh again. Luke looks down, a shy smile playing on his lips. “I used to have a lip ring right here,” he points at the side of his mouth, and Ashton follows where his finger points, stares at his lip. “They took it off when I was admitted in the hospital.”

 

He licks his lips, staring at Luke’s pink lips.

 

And then clears his throat, looking back at him with a vague smile. “Ah, alright. Then I’ll have to think of another title.”

 

It’s effortless really, how they go from that to discussing who would win in a fight, Wolverine against Superman, then Batman against Iron Man, and when Luke casually comments on Wolverine being an asshole and starts listing the reasons why, he thinks he’s going to cry from laughing so much.

 

It’s easy and it’s good and it distracts him from all the bad there is in the world and in his heart, engaging Luke in pointless arguments about superheroes fighting each other. When the door opens and it’s Anne, he blinks a couple of times, taken aback by the fact that they still are, in fact, in a hospital.

 

“Hello, Luke,” she smiles, glancing Ashton’s way, acknowledging him. “How have the past hours been?”

 

Luke parts his lips, looks from Ashton to Anne with hesitance, and then. Well. He feels it coming before Luke builds the courage to speak, kicks himself mentally, because, fuck, of course.

 

“Not great,” he tries, raises his eyebrows. “I can’t,” he chuckles, shakes his head a bit, eyes low. “It really hurts, Anne,” he raises his eyes to her, pressing his lips together for a moment. “Do you think maybe Doc Jing would agree to give me more painkillers or something?”

 

She comes a bit closer, tilts her head to the side with an understanding frown. “Sorry, Luke, Dr Jing can’t raise the dosage. It would be irresponsible, you’ve woke up from a coma, dear.”

 

He breathes in, stares at her. “But that was roughly three weeks ago. What do they think, that I’ll fall _back_ into a coma? Trust me, I won’t. Please,” he does the lip thing again, nervous and this close to begging, and fuck fuck fuck, how could Ashton not have seen this? Just assume he was okay? Ashton holds his breath, looks away.

 

Still he sees Anne shaking her head apologetically, touching the metal on the side of the bed. “I’m sorry.”

 

There’s a pause, and Ashton swears none of them breathes. It’s Luke who breaks the silence, breathes out slowly, tries for a smile, or a chuckle, or something. “No, that’s okay. Can’t hurt to ask, right?” he raises his eyebrows.

 

Anne gives him an endeared half-smile, then turns to Ashton. “I actually came here for you. If you want a ride home, meet me downstairs, okay? I’ll give you a minute to say goodbye,” she smiles back at Luke, who nods quietly, eyes on his lap. “But don’t take long, okay? I took a double shift, don’t even remember what it’s like to sleep,” she makes a face that gets a smile from Ashton, then leaves.

 

Ashton follows her with his eyes, waits for the door to click closed so he looks back at Luke until he looks back.

 

“I didn’t know you were in pain. Shit,” he sighs, bites his lip. “I mean, it makes sense, right? Intense physiotherapy, I can’t even begin to imagine what your muscles might feel like because of the overstimulation. Plus you probably still have abdominal and chest pains because of the tubes. It must be _hell_ ,” he speaks too fast, nearly stutters in the middle of it, ends up saying the last word too strongly, too quick.

 

But he can’t help it. All this time they’ve been talking about the silliest things, Luke trying to make Ashton feel better, and he was struggling with keeping a straight face, in pain, begging for more painkillers in the first opportunity.

 

He snorts. What an idiot he’s been.

 

Luke blinks slowly, as if thinking about it, and then: “But you know what?” he raises his eyebrows, a silly smile playing on his lips. “It’s not as bad when you’re here.”

 

Which doesn’t make any sense, couldn’t even be medically logical to start with, but still makes Ashton bite his lip and look at him, and for the first time, Ashton is absolutely sure that if he doesn’t move away from there, he’s going to just reach for him, hold his face closer to him, and kiss him on the lips. He feels his body ready to gravitate towards him like it’s magnetism, and it makes his stomach sink, how badly he wants this, kissing the pain away from Luke.

 

But instead he laughs a little, stands up from the armchair but not to get closer to Luke. He clears his throat, breathes in and out heavily, ends up saying: “Guess that means I’ll be here a lot, then.”

 

#


	8. Chapter 8

The realization that he wants to kiss Luke should have maybe made a bigger impact, made him freak out and reconsider all his life choices. But when he’s been pedalling all the way from either the shop or his house to the hospital and then back every single day for weeks, he guesses he saw it coming from miles away, and never did a single thing to stop it.

 

When seeing a boy in a hospital is the best part of his day, then maybe he really shouldn’t do anything to stop it. There are worse things to try and stop.

 

#

 

Friday follows more or less the same, minus Michael coming over, though they do talk on the phone for a few minutes, mostly just Ashton checking in on him. Saturday comes, he works his reduced shift at the shop, asks Ashley whether she needs help with the inventory during her shift, ends up staying to help and leaves at the exact same time he would on weekdays, and when she gets on a bus to her house, he pedals to the hospital.

 

Waiting for the third day in a row for Anne’s shift to be over, he realizes that somehow his less than ten minutes ICU visits turned into more than three hour long visits that include Mrs Hemmings nodding acknowledging his way as they pass each other in corridors. The janitor tells him, while he’s outside waiting for Anne with his bike by his side to be put in the trunk, that he thinks he’s seen the woman in the cafeteria. That’s how he knows Mr Hemmings leaves him alone on purpose, and he doesn’t know what to think of that.

 

In the car with Anne later, she gives him a side-smile as she turns to leave the curb, says, “You look happy.”

 

He looks at her, tilts his head to the side. Ashton wants to say something meaningful, but all he manages is a quiet, “Oh.” because he hadn’t noticed.

 

Not that he wasn’t paying attention, because he was. It’s just that he was paying attention to different things. He’d been paying attention to how Luke’s face lights up when he walks in the room, and how comfortable he feels to tell Luke about this odd customer who looked at least sixty but wore a T-shirt that said I’M WITH THE DRUMMER, and then Luke would tell him a lame joke that would have him laughing until there were tears in his eyes. He’d been paying attention to how today Ashley had seemed a little better, pink hair braided down her back as she rolled her eyes with a silly smile when he sprayed water her way instead of at the counter. He’d been paying attention to Michael sending him selfies of him and Calum in class, and then later, in detention, for being caught taking pictures during History period. He’d been paying attention to Lauren shyly sitting next to him during breakfast, shoving her phone his way, her lock screen a picture of her and a boy holding hands and looking timidly each other’s ways. He’d been paying attention to little deals he’d been making with Harry, like late-night marathons of Dragon Ball Z together in exchange for Harry actually eating vegetables for once.

 

There wasn’t much time these last few days, to stare at either the thin white lines of scars across his wrists, or the darkness in his heart.

 

Anne stares at the road, sighs softly. “I’ve missed your smile.”

 

He could argue he’s been smiling all along, but he knows what she means.

 

Instead he smiles until she looks at him, smiling back.

 

She doesn’t bring up that he’s gotten comfortable, that he should encourage Luke to talk to the police, maybe ask Michael to talk as well. She doesn’t ask him to go through such lengths, just runs her hands through his messy curly hair when they get home, says she’s so proud of him. He can’t tell why it makes him want to cry, but he hugs her close, whispers it’s all her, that she raised him right, and he’s glad, so fucking glad.

 

Anne doesn’t scold him for swearing, just laughs quietly, says: “My sweet, sweet boy.”

 

#

 

Sunday is one of the only days he gets to wake up at whatever time he wants, because both Lauren and Harry sleep in anyway, and there are no responsibilities at all. It’s usually when he drifts back to the nicest places in his head, in that state of mind, caught in between sleeping and awake. Sometimes he sees things he’s been seeing since he was a child, like colored dragons and beautiful tall castles. Others, he sees new and shinier things, like his friends all together and happy in harmony, Luke resting his head against his shoulder with sleepy eyes, but when Ashton looks at him he smiles, and everyone is so happy that it hurts his muscles, makes him wake up startled.

 

Then he remembers the car crash, and gets some painkillers for his still sore muscles.

 

It’s early in the morning, six am and nobody’s up, but still he takes his time in the kitchen, glass positioned under the tap to get some water, eyes absentmindedly scanning the dark living room. It’s funny how in days like these, when he can allow himself the luxury of thinking back of things, his memory decides to kick in and give him a thrill, like what it felt like to hold baby Harry for the first time, or be kissed on the lips by someone he cared for the last time.

 

Now, he vaguely remembers his father, sitting cross-legged on the armchair of the living room, newspaper unfolded to cover his face, to keep Ashton from having a clear image of him even in memories. He remembers sitting on the carpet, playing with some miniature cars Anne got him, sees himself there, looking a little bit like Harry, mostly like his father.

 

He sees his father yell but can’t make out the sound, watches his little self raise his head in surprise, then lower again in submission, discredit, shame. Ashton presses his lips together, watches the man with the newspaper put it away but he still can’t bring himself to look. When he gets up from his chair and moves toward the stairs, little him stays there, quiet and unmoving, like he might be punished if he breathes too loudly.

 

Ashton drinks the water to go with the painkillers, rests his weight against the wall next to window, looking through it and watching the stillness of the early am in their neighborhood.

 

He remembers once watching a documentary, back when he was still in school and thought maybe his future could be in psychology, that apparently most of the human memories are tales told by the respective individuals, or at least vastly coloured. No event can be remembered the same by two people. He remembers the theory, and then there’s all that he remembers and all that he doesn’t, and he thinks it makes sense. Maybe all he remembers from his father are colourful versions of negligence that was never quite cruel, but like Lauren who lies about him being dead, Ashton has his own ways of dealing with abandon.

 

What he does know for a fact, is that he still left, no matter how any of them remember it, and in a way, Lauren’s still right, because to them all, the man really is dead.

 

He finishes his water, yawns, hoping something exciting will happen, like someone knocking on his door at such time, or the phone ringing with good news. But nothing happens and sleepiness has left him, so he sits on the very armchair he still sees his father sitting, and as he turns the TV on, Ashton prays he never becomes him.

 

He wishes Luke would call.

 

#

 

Ashton wakes up again with Lauren poking him in the shoulder, saying, “Wake up! I need a favour.”

 

He yawns, rubs his eyes with his hands, turns on his back and stares at the living room ceiling. He doesn’t remember lying down or turning off the TV or bringing a blanket for himself, and yet. He blinks a couple of times, looking at Lauren standing there, her phone in one of her hands. Before properly addressing her, he looks over and past the television, to the clock on the wall, marking it’s past midday.

 

“Shit, I didn’t make lunch,” he sits up straight, blinking a couple of times and yawning once more, trying to get rid of the feeling of sleepiness.

 

She shakes her head. “It’s okay, I reheated yesterday’s dinner and Harry made us a salad. We saved you a plate, it’s in the fridge, just put it in the microwave for a minute and you’re good to go.” Ashton slowly nods, licking his lips, trying to summon enough energy to speak, but his body is still lazy and his mind hasn’t seem to have caught up on the fact that there’s a conversation happening. Lauren shifts her weight to the other foot, tries: “But like I said, I need to ask you for a favour.”

 

“Ah,” he squints his eyes, looks at her, yawns a third time for good measure. “Anything to thank you for the blanket? Pretty sure it got chill early in the morning.”

 

“That was Harry,” she cocks an eyebrow, then shakes her head, as if that’s beside the point. “Listen, the girls are having a sleepover, and I need to be at Charlotte’s earlier, so I can help with preparing the house. Mum doesn’t have a problem with it, but I can’t go there by foot, see,” she sighs, sits next to him on the couch, stealing the blanket to wrap herself around it. He raises his eyebrows. “She lives about forty minutes away.”

 

He throws his head back, making a face. “Forty—forty minutes, Lauren.”

 

But she stares at him, and he stares back, and the staring contest ends when he sighs and shakes his head in desistance, Lauren smiling and reaching for the controller. She turns on the TV, puts on HBO, says, “We have like an hour or two. You can eat and stuff.”

 

He gets up from the couch, sighs heavily, then blinks a couple of times, eyes out the window. “But Mum took the car to the hospital.”

 

Lauren bites her lip, looks away from the TV and to him. “Hmm, yes, I forgot to mention. I called Mum about it. You’d have to go to the hospital get the car. I’ll be waiting here all ready, though, to not waste any time.”

 

Ashton glares, but she only shoots him an apologetic look.

 

He manages to look pissed off all the way up to the stairs, and then he’s already shaking his head and laughing to himself a little, wondering if maybe he can get Calum and Michael to come over so they can have a boys night with Harry as well, play some videogames until they’re too tired to function properly and end up falling asleep spread on the living room carpet.

 

(He wishes he could invite Ashley, too.)

 

Just because, before taking a shower he checks his phone, but there are no missed calls or new texts. But that’s okay, because he’s going to have to drive the car back to the hospital later, and then he can hang out a bit with Luke.

 

#

 

Ashton gets the car keys from a receptionist, because Anne’s too busy with a car crash that happened in the morning involving three cars. No casualties yet, but five people in the ICU. He asks the receptionist if she knows what the cause was and she only stares at him, says it’s confidential, but when he asks the janitor the same question on his way out, the man says one of the guys driving was drunk.

 

It makes him sigh, but he shakes off the thought, promises to be back soon, and drives home with his bike in the trunk of the car.

 

The forty-minutes-long trip isn’t nearly as bad as he thought it could be, Taylor Swift playing loudly on the CD player, a mix Lauren’s friend has burned her with all their favourites. Ashton disastrously tries singing some but gets all the lyrics wrong, which eventually leads to just Lauren singing at the top of her lungs, and Ashton smiling vaguely, eyes on the road.

 

She kisses his cheek before leaving the car, and that’s enough payment that he has to bite back a smile when he waves goodbye and murmurs a pretend-grumpy, “You take care,” and she smiles before closing the door.

 

The drive back, well. Taylor Swift doesn’t play but then neither does the radio. He puts his phone selection on shuffle, listens to songs that meant the world to him a couple of years ago, finds he still likes them with a type of nostalgia that only works for songs and not people—mostly because people change and songs don’t—but he thinks he needs new ones, that these don’t work anymore.

 

What he thinks as he keeps under the speed limit on the road back, as he listens to most of the album _The Chronicles of Life and Death_ by Good Charlotte, is that although he recognizes the dark desperation hovering over his soul whenever he properly looks, well, well, well. He gets more kicks out of listening to the animated intro of _I Just Wanna Live_ , in all its absolute lack of possibility to relate to a song about becoming famous and being annoyed by the media pressure, than to the lingering feeling of punching through walls he used to get when he listened to every line of _S.O.S_., and even if that means one of his salvation songs doesn’t do the trick for him anymore, it also should mean something good, that he doesn’t have a urge to reach for razors whenever he listens to it, either.

 

Which is funny, he supposes, that he doesn’t even properly mourns the songs that used to be the soundtrack of both his fall and what used to feel like redemption. By the time _Predictable_ is playing, he’s drumming against the steering wheel with his fingers, smiling a bit as he wonders whether putting a song about a failed relationship in the mix for Luke would be a bad move.

 

Probably. He won’t do it. But he still wants to show some of these songs to Luke, see if he likes them, see if he can close his eyes and feel the drums and guitar and bass in his heart as the lyrics sink in.

 

He smiles, looks away, as he slows down, presses for the next song on his phone. A song from a much less serious album comes on, an album that Michael had convinced him to download, _Lunch. Drunk. Love_. by Bowling for Soup.

 

The title of the song is _And I Think You Like Me Too._

 

Ashton sort of blushes, sort of presses his lips and tries to quieten his racing thoughts and racing heart, nearing the hospital by now already.

 

This one is going on the mix.

 

#

 

After parking the car and pulling his bicycle out of the trunk, the first person he meets is the janitor. There’s something interesting about it, too, how the man tells him with a side-smile about travelling to see his son two states up and whatever face Ashton makes at him then, earns him a long look and a lazy smile, the janitor telling him carefully, “You’re chipper. Good.”

 

He sort of wishes he could ask about how depressing he must have looked way before, a year ago when he needed stitches, when his skin was too fragile and his heart clouded. Instead he just rolls his eyes with a fond smile, tells the janitor to tell him more about that son of his, and for ten minutes or so, he’s taken somewhere else, to the life of someone who does, in fact, have a father, just a bit to the south and committed to a job and people and things.

 

Maybe his father is committed to a job and people and things, too, but he wouldn’t know. Not him nor Lauren nor Harry, and that says a lot about the type of person his father is anyway.

 

He ends up thanking the janitor, both with their backs rested against the hospital building wall near the parking lot, the janitor giving him a curious look and Ashton shrugging and staring at the pavement. “It’s stupid, but—for being a good father and all? Was thinking about mine today.”

 

If this was any of Anne’s friends, maybe he’d be in a bad place, being forced to say more than he wants to, being cornered by worried looks and patronizing hands on his shoulders, but somehow the janitor was always more his than Anne’s, which he supposes makes sense, when he’s been coming to this hospital for almost as long as the man has worked there. All the janitor does is give him a brief look, nod quietly, a silly smile of pride playing on his lips, appreciating far too much the compliment of being a good father to register the full weight of what Ashton’s said.

 

Not that Ashton minds, though. It’s part of why they get along so well.

 

“Well,” he says, after a pause, taking a step forward and sighing softly. “I have to go find Mum to give her the car keys, and maybe visit Luke if he’s awake.”

 

“Oh, your boy’s up,” the janitor makes a face, walking away from the wall as well. Ashton blinks a couple of times, gives him a look, doesn’t correct him but holds eye-contact until the janitor speaks again. “When my shift started in the morning, I was mopping his floor, but I was right at the other side of the corridor, you know? As far as you can get from his room without leaving the floor,” he raises his eyebrows. “Still I could hear him. Yelling and all, crying for medication. I asked Walker about it, figured it was a heart-attack or whatever it is that makes people scream, right? But it was just pain. I think they put him on something, because he was quiet for a while, but Walker was talking to Jing about something or the other, so he’s probably up already. I mean—not _up_ , but awake.”

 

Ashton parts his mouth, feels the urge to ask more, but he probably wouldn’t know. “I don’t think heart-attacks make you scream, though. It’s more of a burning pain in the chest and the left arm. Unless it’s culminant, you can even be driven to the hospital by someone and stuff, sitting on the passenger seat and not like, screaming,” he explains, but his voice is quiet and he’s still a little dumbstruck.

 

The janitor nods quickly, like he either got it or doesn’t care at all, then shrugs. “Either way, I mean,” he presses his lips apologetically for misdiagnosing. “Go check on him, maybe he gets better if you do.”

 

Ashton gives him a half-hearted smile, says his goodbyes shortly before jogging up the hospital stairs, talking to the receptionist to give Anne the keys and then he’s on the elevator pressing the fifth floor button, heart pounding in nervousness as he crosses his arms against his chest.

 

His mind doesn’t properly function. He’s got a permanent frown of concern to wash away the thoughts of before, happy and clueless, in love with the idea of things looking up more than actually knowing shit about what’s happening.

 

When the elevator doors open, it’s a race. The faster he gets to Luke, the faster he gets to answers.

 

(Answers to nothing, he knows. What would even be the right questions? _When are you going to not be in pain? When can I start thinking about getting you out of here? Is there anything I can do to quicken the process? How do I go about thinking about myself when you’re here in pain?_ , etc. Nothing Luke would have the answer to, nothing anyone would.)

 

Once he sets his mind on automatic, it’s scary how quick his legs take him there, how no one stops him even though it’s against the rules, actually running in a hospital floor. Once he gets there, there’s no stopping him, either, he opens the door without knocking, breathless and cheeks painted pink, hand still tight on the doorknob as he stares at the strangers in the room with wide eyes, eventually ignoring all three to set his eyes on Luke instead.

 

Luke is caught midsentence, sitting straight with his hands on his lap, lips parted and shaping into a vague smile as his eyes meet Ashton’s. But Ashton doesn’t care for his eyes, not immediately, anyway. He scans him down, past the hospital gown and down to his arms, a new butterfly needle attached to where his forearm meets the rest of his arm, the back of his hand covered in purple bruises. He tries swallowing away the sting he gets from imagining Luke screaming in pain early in the morning while Ashton was contemplating the echoes of his father, but his throat is dry and he can’t find it in him to wipe worry off his face.

 

Ashton breathes out slowly, eyes reconnecting to Luke’s, and Luke looks away.

 

“Well, Dad, Jack, Ben. That’s Ashton,” he tilts his head to the side slightly.

 

And that’s when Ashton’s confronted with the fact that he’s just unapologetically walked in on a family moment, three men bigger and older than him crowded around a hospital bed, and now that he lets himself look at them, Ashton wishes he hadn’t been so impulsive, hadn’t acted on whatever it is that he acted, because his face is burning and he’s pretty sure his knees will give in when the older man approaches him with his hand offered.

 

Still Ashton takes his hand and shakes, as firmly as he can, not nearly as firm as he should have.

 

“I’m Dad, I suppose,” the man offers him with a half-smile. Ashton glances Luke’s way in time to see him shut his eyes and shakes his head in embarrassment, which somehow makes the situation seem more bearable. “You can call me Andrew, or Andy for all I care.”

 

“Nice to meet you, sir—”

 

“Andrew?”

 

Ashton nods, letting go of his hand. “Nice to meet you, Andrew.”

 

Smiling in approval, Andrew walks back to the bed, one hand on Luke’s shoulder but eyes still on Ashton. Both of Luke’s brothers stand by the bed, one on each side, and Ashton starts feeling a little threatened, like maybe the best idea would be to just vanish.

 

“Liz told me about how dedicated you are to coming here, keeping Luke company when we can’t,” Andrew says, his voice suddenly serious and losing all spark of smile, and though Luke stares down at his lap blushing furiously, Ashton still can’t let himself feel shy yet, isn’t sure of the outcome or whether this means he shouldn’t come at all. “It’s good to see that Lukey has found a friend.”

 

He breathes out, relieved, trying out his voice with a tentative, “Thank you,” that sounds too weird and out of place, like cropping it and pasting somewhere wrong.

 

“I’m Ben,” the seemingly older man next to Ashton says, but he doesn’t offer his hand or comes any closer. Ashton nods acknowledging, then turns to the other, raising his eyebrows.

 

“Jack,” he says, looking half as happy with Ashton’s presence.

 

It’s intimidating enough, meeting three people from Luke’s family at once, but Luke not speaking much on top of that makes him grow nervous enough that he starts nodding a bit too much, fidgeting at the hem of his shirt, parting his lips to try and justify his presence there, feeling like the world’s biggest loser.

 

Finally though, Luke speaks, after breathing out heavily enough that it makes Ashton look up. “Can you guys come back later or something?”

 

Jack stares at Luke like that’s offensive,but Ben nods and winks at his little brother, practically dragging Jack out of the room, none saying goodbye to Ashton or even seeming to register that he hasn’t moved. Andrew leans down, kisses the top of his son’s head before nodding, too, saying he’ll take the boys home and maybe watch a match of footie, and he’ll be back in the evening with Liz. On his way out, he offers Ashton a tiny smile, which is enough for a goodbye to make him relax a little.

 

As soon as the door clicks closed, Ashton blurts out: “I’m so sorry for coming in like that. It’s just that I was talking to the janitor, and he said you were screaming in pain, and then he said you had a fucking heart-attack, and I knew that probably wasn’t right, but I just needed to check, and then—Luke, Luke, no, why are you laughing?” he stops himself, frowning a little, an embarrassed smile coming in. Luke shakes his head, chest erratic with laughter, and Ashton bites his lip. “Stop laughing!”

 

“That was so awkward,” Luke chuckles, tilting his head to the side with an endeared smile. “Very fucking awkward,” he adds, but fondness takes mockery away from his eyes.

 

Ashton shakes his head with a shy smile, walking to the armchair and sitting on the armrest, closer to Luke. He presses his lips together, quiet for a moment, and when he raises his eyes to look him in the eye again, Luke sighs softly, reading his mind or eyes or something, trying to turn a little to the side so he can be facing Ashton.

 

“I think they raised the dosage of painkillers, finally? Might be morphine. I didn’t really ask. All I know is that I was groggy for a while, and then the pain kind of seemed to morph into just absurd discomfort, and here we are,” he raises his eyebrows with a silly smile, biting on his tongue, but Ashton doesn’t smile back, just stares. “Don’t give me that face. There’s nothing abnormal about it. I’m in pain all the time, doesn’t mean I’m gonna die.”

 

Ashton rolls his eyes, says nothing for a moment, just adjusts a bit so he can rest his back against the armchair but still be sitting on the armrest. He looks at Luke.

 

“Can I tell you a secret?” he says, suddenly.

 

Luke gives him a curious look, but nods.

 

“I look at you,” he starts, taking a deep breath and blinking a couple of times, not wanting to break eye-contact but finding it the most difficult thing he’s done. “I look at you, and I want to be happy for myself, because I like the way you’re looking back. But it just sounds so fucking selfish, enjoying anything, when you’re not a hundred per cent fine yet, and everyone I know is kind of in a bad place, or at least not getting along with each other anymore. And I don’t want to be selfish.”

 

He thinks maybe he’s said too much, crossed a line he shouldn’t have, because Luke doesn’t speak at all for the next couple of seconds, or what feels like forever, and Ashton can’t read his expression. He’s just looking at Ashton, more than looking him in the eye but looking _at_ him, like he’s taking it in and coming to his own conclusions. Ashton wants to tell him to stop, or at least to share his discoveries, because he might as well find some peace in what Luke thinks of him, if the spark in Luke’s eyes when he’s around is any indicative.

 

But he waits. Patiently or impatiently, depends on perspective.

 

“I think it’s very selfish to not let others get a taste of your happiness.”

 

Ashton raises his eyebrows.

 

“I mean, like, sharing is good, especially if it’s happiness?” he shrugs, sighs, looks away. “It sounds like a real burden, to only be allowed to be happy when everyone else is. Why not just be happy for yourself, and hope your happiness catches them too?”

 

It’s maybe how simple it sounds, or how Luke offers it, with raised eyebrows and a serious but calm tone of voice, steady and quiet, that makes Ashton look at him the way he does. He’s not sure exactly how that is, either, but it makes something change in Luke’s eye, like he’s suddenly self-conscious and should watch his next words carefully.

 

Ashton lets himself smile a bit, trying, “Catch? Like flu?”

 

“Exactly like flu,” Luke smiles back. “Happiness _can_ be just as contagious.”

 

Mirroring his smile or at least trying to, he looks away for a moment, thinking it through, considering whether this is his choice or not, to spread happiness and, more than that, to accept it for himself. Luke’s words do make sense, though, much like anything he says, every word a gem he intends on treasuring until it changes all the ugly parts about himself. Which is why he doesn’t quite get it, how come he’s still quiet about the shooting, why he apparently refused to speak to the police or let his parents properly press charges or whatever is the situation he doesn’t know how to go about asking. It makes him feel like he’s betraying Luke’s mother and father by not poking around and trying to convince Luke, like Luke so easily convinces him of whatever he wants at the given time, but truth is, he’s just not sure he can afford to lose this connection if it doesn’t go well.

 

He looks at him again, probably looking every bit as thoughtful as Luke mocks him with a frown, and when his lips break the seriousness and decide to go for a smile, Luke smiles back, throwing his head back against the pillow a little, lifting his chin and looking at Ashton after a pause.

 

“How’s my mix coming along?”

 

Ashton remembers listening to that Bowling for Soup song in the car, feels himself blushing a little as he smirks, shoots a look at the floor instead of holding eye-contact. “Good, I guess? I still need to work on it. I only have like three songs in it so far.”

 

Luke makes a whining sound that gets a laugh out of Ashton, and when he looks, Luke is rolling his eyes.

 

“Hey, I want to make a nice one.”

 

Raising his eyebrows to Ashton, Luke smirks. His cheeks are far redder than Ashton imagines his are, but still he works the nerve to say: “You want to make a nice one because you _like_ me.”

 

Ashton chokes on a laugh this time, nearly falls off the armrest of the chair, and he knows Luke is joking, even if his tone is more tentative than teasing, but still. He says, “Shut up!” a bit too loudly, shakes his head, still laughing, then adds, “What are you? Twelve?”

 

That only makes Luke laugh, too, or maybe giggle. It does feel like Ashton’s giggling, and soon he’s shaking his head, smile still very much there, lingering even if the meaning is changing, and when he reaches for Luke’s hand, Luke gives it to him easily. But it’s different, because Luke’s motor skills are better and he seems to see it coming, reaches for Ashton’s hand as Ashton reaches for his, and as they meet sort of halfway with nothing to rest against, Ashton pulls Luke’s purple-bruised hand to his knee, and he doesn’t cover it as much as holds it, and how their fingers intertwine together, Ashton can’t look away.

 

It makes him breathless.

 

“I do like you,” Ashton says, still looking at their hands together, Luke’s warm against his, the abused veins up, Ashton’s long fingers almost reaching for them as he holds Luke’s hand. “I don’t know what I’d have done at this point if I couldn’t count on you.”

 

Luke chuckles, but still sounds shy when he says: “I never do anything. All I do is literally lie around and from time to time complain about physiotherapy being too hard,” he raises his eyebrows, tilts his head a bit in Ashton’s direction, and Ashton gives him a tiny smile when their eyes meet again. “With that being said, though, as mortifyingly embarrassing as it was to have Dad thanking you for being basically my only friend… Thanks for being my friend.”

 

And that’s the joke, Ashton thinks, that he’s this close of just sending it all to hell and kissing these pink lips, to scare away the pain and the bruises, but also because he’s been wondering what it must taste like, and whether Luke will deepen the kiss first or act a bit startled when Ashton touches the back of Luke’s neck with his hand. He’s been wondering if maybe he’ll sigh softly trying not to make a sound, or lick his mouth like it’s a tasteful sin, moaning against him if Ashton dares to pull him closer.

 

That’s the joke, because Ashton does have friends, and he’s never thought about any of them that way, and yet here he is, a boy’s hand entangled with his just over his knee, a look of unmistakable gratitude in his face, and Ashton can’t even bring himself to be embarrassed by how helpless he is. Maybe he was from day one.

 

“Yeah. No problem,” he ends up saying.

 

It’s maybe fifteen minutes of pointless chatting later when Ashton remembers Harry is home by himself, his eyes widen, and he feels like the least responsible person on Earth. He tells Luke he needs to just call home and check on Harry, and Luke nods, says the signal is better by the window, he hears. Harry picks up the phone with the crankiest voice, says Ashton woke him up, and he plans on going back to bed, immediately hanging up the phone then.

 

Ashton cocks an eyebrow and stares at his phone, shaking his head, and when he glances Luke’s way again, Luke’s frowning at his own phone, looking distressed and frustrated.

 

“Hey, what’s wrong?” he asks, walking his way.

 

Luke turns the phone away fast, shrugs, murmurs, “Nothing,” and then, “is your brother alright?”

 

Ashton rolls his eyes, stares. It actually makes Luke laugh.

 

“It’s really ridiculous.”

 

Still with his own phone in his hands, he stops next to the bed, not close enough he gets to rest against it, but close enough that he holds his breath as he presses his lips together for a moment, waiting for Luke to look back at him. “Try me.”

 

Luke sucks on the side of his bottom lip, where Ashton assumes his lip ring once was, turns his phone over and over in his hands like it might help his motor skills get better. “I got better, you know. Like, I can move my legs a bit, even if they’re not strong enough to hold my weight yet. I can lift my arms,” he pauses, eyes raising to Ashton with a cocky smile, “even over my head if I want to,” he says, and the pride he takes in saying that makes Ashton smile. “I mean, it hurts like hell, but technically I _can_ ,” he sighs, looks away again. “I thought getting my phone back would make things better, but other than for simple games that don’t need much motor skills, I can’t. Every single time I try texting it’s just—it’s a mess. I get every single word wrong, I can’t even correct it. It’s messy and—Kind of leaves me feeling like I’m failing, you know? But I swear I’m trying. But, yeah, physiotherapy is so hard.”

 

Maybe if it hadn’t been the case of Luke looking so honest-to-God fragile right now, he’d have held back and thought twice and reconsidered his every action instead of acting naturally. But Luke’s breathing out heavily and staring at his lap with a frown, being too hard on himself when it seems to be the one thing he keeps telling Ashton not to do, so he thinks he can’t afford the luxury of second thoughts.

 

Sitting on the side of the bed next to Luke, still not touching at all but closer than he ever was, he ignores the nervousness in his heart that comes with being close, kicks away his own doubts about crossing boundaries because it’s not the time, and says, “You could try using Siri. You know, when you hold here,” he leaves his phone to the side and takes Luke’s phone from his lap, fingers brushing against Luke’s very briefly. He presses the home button, and the Siri app opens, waiting for a voice command. He raises his eyebrows to Luke, and Luke blinks a couple of times, nodding softly. “Then, there’s also this thing, here, wait a sec,” once the keyboard on the phone is open, he reaches for the little microphone, “try pressing it and saying something.”

 

Luke takes a deep breath, like the task at hand might be too tough and he doesn’t want to fail in front of Ashton. Or maybe it’s not that at all, and it’s something completely different, but once the thought occurs to Ashton, he’s already reaching for Luke’s wrist, either to give him support or to just touch him in some way, call his attention in the quietest possible way.

 

“It’s okay if you don’t get it in the first try, though.”

 

At first Luke doesn’t react at all, then slowly, he shows what’s on his mind, first his teeth scratching his bottom lip where the ring was, then raising his eyes to Ashton with a smile. Later comes a nod. Then the movement of his hands, frown of concentration as he holds the phone with one hand, Ashton letting go of his wrist, and he tries hitting the little microphone on the screen with his finger.

 

Ashton supposes he doesn’t get it at first, because his frown grows deeper for a couple of seconds, and then he raises both eyebrows in surprise, a smile playing on his lips as he brings the phone closer to his mouth.

 

“iPhones are lame,” he says happily, and Ashton chuckles.

 

Luke puts the phone a bit away, watches as the text is written how he said it. He shows the phone to Ashton, and Ashton smiles.

 

“I did it,” he says, after a pause.

 

“You did it.”

 

And then it’s slow-motion, how Luke licks his lips and sucks on his bottom lip, looking at Ashton as he bites down a smile. It makes him weak, makes him glad he’s sitting even if it’s in Luke’s bed and the thought alone makes his head feel too light.

 

But the thing about slow-motion, is that it slows everything down, from the world around him to his breathing, and definitely to his impulses. And maybe it could be a window that he sees close right in front of him, or maybe that’s just how it was meant to be from the start, gratitude unfolding once again in the form of never-breaking eye-contact and smiles bit back.

 

What he knows is: Luke looks away and clears his throat.

 

“So I have some kickass news.”

 

Ashton smiles, even if he feels suddenly self-conscious of their proximity and how he should probably get off the bed, but Luke doesn’t seem to mind, and he definitely doesn’t, even if it means his heart keeps racing all the time.

 

“Last time you said that, you got yourself a sweet room.”

 

Luke smirks. “Well, my physician said that if I work really hard next week in physiotherapy, she’ll give me a wheelchair—” he pauses, starts speaking fast. “I do have a wheelchair already, I mean, it’s not like anyone takes me in their arms to go from room to room and shit. I think it’s pretty standard, too, nothing to brag about? That they give me a wheelchair? But, I mean, I mean, _I mean_ ,” he sort of laughs, like he realizes how fast he’s speaking but can’t calm down his excitement. “She said I could have it, and, well, I asked about what if Mum or Ben or whoever wants to go around the hospital a bit and could I be with them? She said it’s okay, as long as I don’t leave the building obviously. Said it’s probably better if I stay in the corridor, but I could, as she put it, _go on adventures_ , or something,” he rolls his eyes, still smiling, eyes lit up and wonderful when he looks Ashton in the eye again. “So, pretty lame, right? _Adventures_ ,” he says the word again in a funny tone of voice, it makes Ashton laugh.

 

“You know what,” Ashton raises his eyebrows, and maybe he shouldn’t be looking at Luke in whatever way he is, but he can’t help it. “I don’t think it’s lame at all. I think it’s wonderful, and it shouldn’t be called any other word than just that, _adventure_ ,” he smiles. “I can’t wait ‘til you have that wheelchair for yourself. I’ll sure want to go on an adventure with you, if you’ll have me.”

 

Luke gives him that smile. That one, the specific one that started the trouble in Ashton’s chest, and also all the light that came with it.

 

“I’ll tell you what: I’ll work hard on physiotherapy and you work hard on my mix, and hopefully next week we’ll be out of this dull room. Deal?”

 

“Deal.”

 

The word is out of his mouth faster than he could even process the fondness in Luke’s eyes, or even consider what he might look like right now.

 

#

 

The next week is a blur, or feels like one anyway. It’s dreamless night after dreamless night, eyelids heavy and never quite feeling like he’s sleeping enough, once in the living room sharing a blanket with Lauren, once in Harry’s room in a kitchen chair because they watched a horror film and Harry can’t seem to fall asleep, once with his head in an awkward angle against Anne’s shoulder when they’re all watching movies together. It almost seems like he’s purposefully escaping his bed, but then again, he likes it that way, leaving bits of him everywhere so his family knows they’re loved.

 

But these are the nights.

 

On Monday he’s leaning against the counter and telling Ashley about a documentary he watched about UFOs and the subject catches her attention, has her frowning and narrowing her eyes, nodding slightly when she hears something she particularly likes. The conversation is interrupted by a customer or two, and when they’re left alone again, Ashton says, instead of continuing the story:

 

“So how are things between you and your parents?”

 

For a second, he’s absolutely sure she’s going to change the subject, shrug or make a joke, but then she pauses, presses her lips together for a moment, leaning against the counter too on the other side, so she’s closer to Ashton. Her voice quietens and she barely sounds like herself. She says: “Dad isn’t really talking to me. Keeps saying I could’ve killed my friends. Said I should never drive again. He’s right.”

 

Ashton shakes his head slowly, reaches for her hand, covers it with his, squeezes hard enough that she gives him a half-smile. “It was a mistake. Could’ve been anyone.”

 

She raises her eyebrows. “But it was me.”

 

And Ashton thinks about Luke then, honest-to-God thinks about his smile and the things he says, and how he takes Ashton’s breath away so easily, with particular looks that he swears are reserved for him, and smiles constantly on the fence between coy and cheeky.

 

He tilts his head to the side a bit, and Ashley stares at him, at the smile shaping on his lips, the frown of confusion growing, but she’s still quiet, still lets him talk first.

 

“First time I saw you,” he licks his lips, looks away for a second, as if he could recall the exact moment. “We were eight, I think. Maybe seven. You were taller and angrier than me, would punch the air out of boys, your fist going firmly against their chest whenever they made a joke saying you couldn’t play footie with them because you were a girl. It was the first day of school, and you were already being called for detention,” he raises his eyebrows as if to make a point, Ashley kind of giggles, shakes her head, even though she doesn’t seem to understand why he’s bringing it up now. “I didn’t really have many friends, either. There were two or three boys I talked to, but by then I was already growing too self-conscious of being attracted to both boys and girls and I didn’t really like being close to boys too much. Thought they might notice, who knows,” he sighs softly, hands still holding Ashley’s. “Then you were leaving the principal’s office, and I was waiting to talk to her. Mum had called, I think telling them to let me go sooner, that I’d have to get Lauren and go home walking, something about my Dad. Whatever. What I mean is, I was sitting there waiting, and you walked out with a high chin and a silly smile, gave me a look, asked, ‘are you in trouble?’ and when I shook my head no, you just said, ‘hang out with me, and we can change that’.”

 

Ashley rolls her eyes and laughs, but squeezes Ashton’s hand under hers, and he smiles fondly. She looks away, and he doesn’t.

 

“Could’ve been anyone, but it was you. You were my first friend. And I love you, you know that? I love you a lot. And I’ll never leave.”

 

She looks at him, pink hair making her look like a galactic girl he’s read about in comics before, fighting crime on different planets, bringing peace by kicking ass. The character does sound a lot like Ashley, one way or another.

 

She lets go of his hands, pokes him where a dimple forms when he smiles. “Love you too, loser.”

 

But Luke’s still in the back of his mind, and he wants to share happiness and make Ashley happy for him since the rest is beyond his control, things he can’t fix at her home and in her heart. So he licks his lips tentatively, tries to think of a way to put it, but the fan above them is too old and loud and no customer comes in, and the silence maybe grows too long, because she pokes him again, raised eyebrows like she fully expects something.

 

And he gives her something, the first thing that comes to his mind:

 

“I think I have a crush.”

 

She stares. “No shit.”

 

Ashton laughs, lowers his head for a moment, looks up at her again with what could only be described as the silliest smile. It makes her bite back a smile of her own. “I’m making him a mix tape. It’s mostly because he doesn’t know _Why’d You Only Call Me When You’re High_ , but—”

 

Ashley interrupts him, blinking slowly. “Whoa, wait a second. He doesn’t like Arctic Monkeys? What type of—”

 

“—but,” he says a bit louder, making her laugh. “But I don’t know. Kind of feels like I’m back in school, making someone a mix with songs that I hope they’ll listen to thinking of me. Sometimes I think it’s just wishful thinking, that I’m his only friend and that’s why he treats me so well, and I want to give him time to rebuild his life because it’s just been handed back to him. He won’t graduate with his class and is struggling so much with physiotherapy. I don’t want him to worry about what is it that he feels for me when he’s got so much more on his plate, and it may be nothing.” He pauses, looks Ashley in the eye. She’s watching him closely, paying attention like she does to few things, looking close to bite her tongue just so she doesn’t interrupt him. Ashton smiles. “But that’s only sometimes, ‘shley. Only sometimes, because other times? Other times I catch him looking, and he looks away with pink cheeks. When my hand is on his, I could swear he holds his breath too. And listen, he wants me to be happy so much,” he raises his eyebrow, letting a dry laugh out.

 

Ashley smiles, properly smiles, gives him a taste of something beautiful, and maybe Luke’s right. Maybe happiness can be contagious like the flu. (Part of him knows, well, the flu only lasts for so long. But that’s different. That’s a ridiculous argument. This will last. This will last forever.)

 

She doesn’t waste her time pretending to know anything about Luke’s feelings, but she knows enough about Ashton’s that she says, after a pause: “And you want him to be happy too. It seems you two are doing a fine job of keeping a smile on each other’s faces.”

 

#

 

He invites her over for lunch on Wednesday, mostly because Lauren will be home and Ashley has been second-guessing her pink hair, wearing it too much in buns and messy ponytails instead of loose how she used to so much when she was prouder of her hair.

 

Ashley agrees happily, smiles for most of the customers for the rest of the day.

 

#

 

At evening he goes to the hospital, _of course_. Tells Luke about Ashley’s pink hair and Lauren’s insistence on dying her hair blue—and how Anne isn’t on board with the idea—and even though Luke’s tired and sleepy, he still shows Ashton his progress with physiotherapy.

 

His attending physician, Dr Jing, comes while Ashton is visiting. Smiles politely but that’s about it, doesn’t even seem to fully acknowledge Ashton is Anne’s son, just checks on Luke and asks a couple of questions about how he’s feeling, says Dr Bailey paid some compliments about his efforts in physiotherapy, and just as abruptly as she came in the room, she leaves, too.

 

“Dr Bailey is my physiotherapist,” Luke says with a sigh, “one of them, anyway. He’s the nicest. Said if I can write my name by the end of the month, he’ll give me a lollipop,” Luke stares in mockery, making Ashton laugh.

 

It’s the type of thing that he doesn’t think about that gets to him the most, like how he leans forward, sitting on the end of the armchair, now his arm against the bed as he reaches for Luke’s arm, fingers drawing aimlessly as he says, smile still on his face: “Cut him some slack. I’ve met him once or twice. Really cool guy. He probably just doesn’t know you well enough to promise you something you’ll really like.”

 

And it’s only the short silence that follows that makes Ashton self-conscious of what he’s done, how fast he was to touch Luke in any way, and he presses his lips and freezes, hands stop moving. But Luke chuckles, turns his hand up in case Ashton will have it, and says, “Well, it would be very nice if he promised me that I can wear normal clothes. I’ve about had enough of this gown.”

 

Ashton smiles absentmindedly, heart beating fast as his fingers slide down the length of Luke’s arm, reaches his wrist, fingers playing at the warm and pale skin, naked of any marks. “It’s because they’re still running tests on you. It’s your sixth week, isn’t it? It’s procedure to keep a close eye on you for the first five. They’ll probably let you wear your own clothes soon.”

 

His voice dies a little, fingers finally exploring Luke’s palm, lazily at first, and then when Luke starts reacting, fingers reaching for him just to touch him back, he can’t control his little smile.

 

“You should be a doctor.”

 

He stops, blinks a couple of times, looks up at Luke with eyebrows raised so high they probably disappear under his fringe. “I should be a what?”

 

Luke gives him a timid smile, shrugging a bit, fingers still touching lightly Ashton’s now unmoving ones. “Ever since the first time we talked, you keep dropping all this medical knowledge—” Ashton parts his lips to interrupt, Luke shakes his head. “No, no, hear me out. I know you kind of grew up here. But this is just _how_ you know it, not _why_ you know it. Dad loves fishing, used to take me, Ben, and Jack to fish all together. We grew up with that, yeah, but we all fucking hated it,” he laughs, makes Ashton smile, too. “Now, you… You know because you like it. I think you’d love it, being a doctor, treating people, healing them. I think it’d make you really happy.”

 

His throat is dry and he’s pretty sure he can’t quite move. Luke’s fingers are still lazily playing with his, which is a good sign, means he’s still most definitely there. He couldn’t pinpoint the exact reason why this conversation makes him so nervous, like he’s going to be sick at any minute, but.

 

“Even if I agreed that I do want to be a doctor, which I’m not,” he pauses, presses his lips together, then sighs. “It’s four years of college, plus four years of medical school. Eight years, and I couldn’t last a week in college.”

 

Ashton’s sort of hoping this will settle things. If he wasn’t good enough for a week of community college, then certainly he wouldn’t be good enough to be _a doctor_. He feels a sour taste in his mouth saying it, yeah, especially with that tone, sort of hoping Luke won’t take it as an offense, but Luke just gives him a funny look.

 

A funny look, like that’s just bullshit.

 

“You didn’t have a purpose then, though. Stop me if I’m wrong,” he raises his eyebrows, smug smile on his lips. Ashton rolls his eyes, but stays quiet. “Things were also probably different in a lot of aspects. Circumstances change, and most importantly, people change. If you couldn’t make it work last time, there’s no reason not to try to make it work again. So many people take gap years anyway. Again, stop me if I’m wrong, but I’m just going to assume you know eight years isn’t a life time, and certainly means very little if it means it’s the road that takes you to something that will make you truly happy.”

 

Ashton cocks an eyebrow doubtfully, is quiet for a moment, and then, shaking his head a little, he says: “You sound like you came straight out of a self-help book.”

 

Luke laughs like that’s the funniest thing he’s heard all day, it ends up stealing a smile away from Ashton, and when Ashton properly slides his fingers between Luke’s, it only feels like the logical thing to do.

 

#

 

Luke drops the subject, but it’s in the back of Ashton’s head, of course. Not that he thinks he can do it, because he can’t. It’s just… a nice thing to dream about, is all.

 

#

 

On Tuesday he makes up his mind about not going back to bed after making his siblings breakfast. He rushes them to eat as fast as they can, even if Lauren glares at him and Harry whines. While Anne puts on some light make-up, he washes the dishes, and just like that, he’s ready in time to get a ride to the hospital.

 

She drops Lauren and Harry at school before turning to Ashton properly, but once she does, he quickly comments on the first thing that comes on his mind before she has the time to ask anything:

 

“You look pretty. Any interesting new doctor or nurse?” he raises his eyebrows. Anne rolls her eyes with a smile, eyes back on the road, pulling off the curb. “Or perhaps a patient. It would be very _Grey’s Anatomy_.”

 

At that, Anne actually laughs. “Just so you could say you were only falling in your mother’s footsteps?”

 

Ah. Touché.

 

Feeling his cheeks burn, he turns to the window, watches preteens talking to preteens, and it’s kind of bizarre how most of those years are blurred for him, how he can’t quite remember specific things anymore, just the general of what he felt for most of the time, who was holding his hand and who was threatening to punch his face.

 

“I’m not in love with a patient, Mum,” he says, sounding every bit of a stubborn child as Harry does when he insists on not wanting to take a shower or going to bed or anything really. Anne chuckles, Ashton rolls his eyes, decides it’s better not to fight it. “It would be nice if you fell in love again, though.”

 

She shrugs. “I don’t need a man—”

 

“Never said you do.”

 

“—Besides, it’s a modern world. It’s not like a woman must have a man by her side to be considered happy or anything. I’m plenty happy having you and your sister and your brother. Plus I have the hospital. I’m a happy, successful woman. Being a single Mum doesn’t take that away.”

 

Ashton sighs, quiet for a minute. They’re driving past houses now, still in such a suburban neighborhood that it hardly feels like they’re on their way to downtown, hardly feels like anything is close. But in a place like this, you get used to the little things, like trees practically connecting one to the other, big two-stored houses with low fences and green grass, and ten minutes away, building after building after building, sky seemingly greyer and air seemingly thicker, hotter, dirtier. It’s the type of thing that gets under people’s skins, though, makes them grow defensive and that creeping sensation of having to look over your shoulder, or at least that’s how Ashton’s felt for most of his life.

 

Like every couple of minutes he could easily be taken away from green-grassed peacefulness and be thrown into grey-skied paranoia.

 

He presses his lips, considers his words.

 

Ashton’s so done with the grey-skied paranoia, all the rushed words and hushed feelings that usually come with it.

 

“What if I go to college?” he blinks a couple of times, eyes still through the window, then slower, quieter, he adds: “Lauren and Harry will. And the hospital, well, I mean, that’s great, isn’t it? I’m happy for you. You _are_ happy. I don’t think you need anyone by your side. I just have this fear…”

 

Maybe it’s because he trails off that she gets quiet, doesn’t snap at him sounding like he knows so much when in reality he’s not sure of his first word. All he knows is he’s getting bolder as time’s passing by, or maybe it’s the circumstances, being more comfortable in a place where things have no other route to follow but to look up. He rolls down the window, elbow out and letting the wind blow his hair, narrows his eyes and tries not to let the pollution in his nostrils, tries to stay back where there are houses and green and not many fences.

 

Through all this, Anne’s quiet. Maybe just a couple of seconds, maybe more.

 

When she breaks the silence, it is by saying: “Sometimes it’s a choice to be single. I’m not looking for anyone.”

 

Ashton sighs softly, looks at his beautiful mother, who he loves more than anyone else in the whole world, would kill for her, would die for her, all in gratitude for everything she’s done for him, all in pure unconditional love of never having been wronged enough that his love changed. This time, he doesn’t consider his words. His mentality is the same and there’s nothing he’d like to avoid more than confrontation, especially when they’re so close to the hospital and soon she’ll be putting on scrubs and starting her shift.

 

But the words are there, have been there for who knows how long, and something makes him either brave or reckless enough to say them now:

 

“It’s why you’re choosing it that worries me,” he pauses, looking at her intently as if she can just look away from the road. He thinks she’s glad she can’t. “Not all men are like Dad.”

 

He can see her narrow her eyes, as if she’s ready to fight back, taken by the defensiveness and the tendency to put walls up that nearing the city does to you, but he gives her no time, has thought about this far too much to let this opportunity slip away.

 

“You raised two sons who’ll do everything in their power to never hurt anyone the way he hurt you, hurt _us_.” He offers her a smile that she can only see with peripheral vision, half-proud of her for accomplishing it, half-proud of himself for not screwing it up. “I don’t think you need to actively go look for someone if you don’t feel like it. I’m just saying, maybe don’t hold back if you do like someone one day.”

 

And it’s the craziest thing, how instead of rolling her eyes and telling him to mind his own business, or reminding him of how they’re several years apart and he lacks her experience and know-how, well, she says:

 

“What if they let me down?”

 

Her voice is cracked, innocent, makes him reach for her hand on top of the stick gear, smile at her. “What if they don’t?”

 

Anne laughs, Ashton’s little laugh just an echo to her own, and there’s silence for a while, like they’re both letting their words sink in and evaluating their weight, where they’ll end up, too: if it’s in the back of a dusty drawer in their heads or if it’s right on their hearts. Ashton hopes it’s the latter. Hopes he won’t forget his own advice, too.

 

As she parks the car in the hospital parking lot, she raises her eyebrows as if she’s just remembered something, and asks: “Why are you here this early, by the way? Thought your standard visiting hours were in the evening.”

 

They get out of the car, she holding her purse and the car keys, he scratching his arm and looking away as he follows her up the back stairs of the hospital. “Well, Michael texted last night. Calum’s parents said it was okay to have us over, play some videogames and shit, so I’m going to his place after my shift at the shop.”

 

She holds the door open for him, and as he passes through, he swears that’s the end of it, and she won’t make any more questions. A second later though, she’s right at his side, pumping her shoulder against his like Ashley does sometimes.

 

“Still doesn’t answer my question.”

 

“God, Mum,” he rolls his eyes fondly, shakes his head. “Just wanna see Luke. Alright? Just hang out a bit if he’s awake, since I can’t tonight. That’s all.”

 

Anne smiles, but doesn’t say anything else on that matter.

 

“Okay. Have fun, dear, my shift starts in fifteen, and I have to change and grab a coffee,” she reaches for him, and when he lowers his head a little with a bit of an embarrassed chuckle, she kisses his forehead.

 

“See ya,” he says, more to thin air than Anne, as she turns and walks quickly towards the end of the corridor.

 

Hands tucked into the jeans of his pockets, he walks to the elevator. Knows the button to press, the direction to take, the steps that will lead him there. It’s all too familiar, and yet every single time he nears Luke’s room, something agitates under his skin, like his blood is going too fast or his bones get life of their own.

 

Ashton isn’t complaining.

 

Anything but.

 

#

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BIG BIG BIG BIG THANK YOU. i hope you're enjoying it!!! since i don't think i ever linked you guys to it and i probably should have at chapter one, [here](http://daddirwin.tumblr.com/post/112276330175/how-to-save-a-life-112k-13-chapters-link)'s the rebloggable cover art of the fic in case you're interested! have a nice weekend ♥


	9. Chapter 9

For the first time since Luke woke up, he’s asleep when Ashton opens the door of his room, too impatient to have his knocks ignored for longer.

 

It’s a bit eerie, walking in a room with someone sleeping so peacefully, still that nagging terrifying feeling making him come closer to the EKG machines, check that he’s not dead, not in a coma, just sleeping.

 

Just sleeping. Which he can deal with.

 

He tries not to be disrespectful about it—doesn’t stare, barely even looks his way. Walks to the window instead, takes a peek between the closed curtains at the sun still not quite high enough in the sky to bathe the city in its light. It gives him a dull sense of hopefulness, watching the city from Luke’s room, his soft sighs every now and then just a reminder that there’s nothing wrong with him.

 

Then he grows bored, or temptation too big.

 

Ashton turns to Luke, walking to his bed in tentative steps, arms crossed over his chest and lips pressed together. Luke’s properly lying down on the bed, as opposed to sitting straight up like most of the times Ashton’s seen him. Eyes closed making his long eyelashes almost touch his cheeks, and suddenly Ashton wants to touch his face, too, but presses his arms against his chest harder instead.  

 

Luke’s lying on his side, body covered in a thin blanket but still showing the tall figure curled in a ball. Taller than Ashton, maybe, all made of long legs.

 

Something in that moves him, until he can’t quite stop himself anymore, standing next to Luke with his hand hovering over Luke’s own hand, the one doing a poor job of pulling the blanket up, when it’s almost all the way down to his chest. When Luke sighs again, Ashton retrieves his hand with wide-eyes, and Luke’s hand slides down to his own knee, and then drops further, hitting the metal framing the bed with a thud.

 

Ashton reacts first, taking a step back and staring, and then it’s Luke’s groan of pain and frustration, his hand moving back to his knee in instinct, the already sore purple spot abused by the accidental collision against the metal frame.

 

Ashton must get caught up with watching Luke’s hand, because he misses Luke opening his eyes, but not the loud yawn that follows. He looks up with raised eyebrows, and Luke meets his eyes with a lazy and quiet: “Morning, Ash.”

 

Blinking a couple of times, he looks at this boy, and well.

 

He’s never called him Ash before, which technically isn’t such a big deal—his family and friends tend to call him Ash whenever they want something from him or are feeling especially eager to give love, and Ashton wonders if that’s the case, if Luke wants something from him (and he would, he would give anything), or if Luke’s just eager to give love (and he would, he would take it in any way).

 

Instead of questioning it, he lets his mouth shape into an easy smile, murmurs, “Morning,” like they may wake up someone else if they speak any louder than this. Luke still blinks a couple of times, sleepy and wonderful, bringing his hurt hand to rub his eyes, and on an impulse, Ashton stops him. Grabs his wrist midair with both hands, shaking his head a little, feeling his cheeks burn but still holding his hand. “You hurt your hand. It’s already sore.”

 

Luke laughs, letting Ashton pull his hand back down, fingers careful against his. “I can be clumsy,” he comments unapologetically, and something about it makes Ashton laugh a little, too. “I was having a bad bad dream,” he adds right away, making Ashton look up, arms suddenly useless by his sides, like he should be doing something else. “Kind of felt like I’d never wake up.”

 

“You have.” Ashton frowns, sits back on the armrest of the armchair, hands on his lap idly, eyes on Luke the whole time. “Want to tell me about it?” he asks, and Luke’s quick to shake his head no, so he offers the next option. “Well, are you not going to ask why I’m here so early?”

 

Luke smirks, like there’s something he wants to say, and Ashton’s absolutely sure it’s something he wants to hear. But then courage dies down with his smirk, he ends up shrugging, face still half-buried on his pillow as he asks, “So why are you here so early?”

 

It’s that something in his eye, maybe due to sleepiness, maybe the still turned off lights and how the sunlight creeps in through the curtains, but the look in Luke’s eye, Ashton could swear it’s something he wants tattooed on his skin.Which is going too far, he’s aware, self-awareness too high since finding out he wants to kiss the boy. But what’s been bottled up has exploded, and it’s all over the place anyway, so he’s not stopping himself, not from thinking it anyway.

 

Ashton smiles, shrugs. “Turns out I’ll have a busy evening.”

 

Looking away immediately, Luke nods. Ashton’s already blinking with parted lips, finding himself eager to clear whatever misunderstanding is in the building, because it can’t be right, how Luke avoids his eyes and chews on his bottom lip for a second before speaking again, voice slow and careful.

 

“Like a date?”

 

Oh. _Oh_.

 

He laughs, shakes his head. “Well, a double date, I suppose. On one side you have Michael and Calum, on the other, me and Calum’s PlayStation.”

 

Still Luke chews on his lip some more, bites back the smile, eyes still on the floor. Ashton wonders if he’s embarrassed, knows he would be, but he doesn’t look it, instead just unabashedly happy.

 

“Tell me about it?”

 

And Ashton does. Sits properly on the armchair, tells him about how he’s only really texted with Michael and Calum through Michael’s phone lately, that Calum still doesn’t have his phone back, but it’s definitely progress that his parents are letting him host a PlayStation night at their house. Talks about how much he misses going to the beach with them, that going alone just isn’t the same. Mentions how much Ashley misses them too, but won’t say it out loud. Asks what Luke thinks Mali-Koa is thinking, and when Luke raises his eyebrows with a vague smile, like, _How am I supposed to know_?, he just laughs and nods, because—obviously.

 

Thing is: once Luke asks, he’s talking non-stop, be it about his day or about his plans or about anything. It’s a dangerous power to have over someone, to get them talking.

 

After everything, though, when they’re quiet for a moment—after Ashton’s talked about all his expectations and hopes for tonight, and Luke’s listened and smiled and made few comments about how happy he is for Ashton, too—Ashton finds himself sort of wanting to say that though this explains why he’s here early, it doesn’t, and why doesn’t Luke pressure him into giving more like Anne did? Because he would. He would say he didn’t like the idea of spending a whole day without seeing Luke, without talking to him and listening to him complain about physiotherapy. He gave up his midmorning sleep just so he could have this, talking in a quiet tone in a hospital room with lights turned off, Luke still curled in a ball, half his face buried in the pillow, watching Ashton intently. It agitates his chest, makes his bones glow under his skin, he can feel it.

 

Sighing heavily, Luke presses his lips together, makes the pause awkward by choice, laughs a little to himself. “I have to show you something, but I didn’t really picture it happening this way.”

 

Ashton holds his breath, stares.

 

With a second sigh, Luke stretches and then yawns loudly, and resting his weight on his arms and hands, he manages to pull himself up until he’s sitting on the bed. Ashton’s staring with wide eyes, ready to congratulate him on the great improvement physiotherapy has brought, but that’s not all. From the side of the metal bars of his bed, he retrieves a pair of crutches.

 

“Do you need help?” Ashton asks, standing up quickly, as Luke aligns the crutches in front of him.

 

Looking a bit embarrassed, Luke nods and sighs. “Just to stand up. Takes a bit more effort to leave the bed than I hoped it would, and I’ve done it by myself before, but,” he shrugs.

 

Offering help comes as an impulse he doesn’t know what to do with.

 

Because in all truth, he doesn’t know how to help Luke. He’s standing in front of him with slightly shaking hands, holding both crutches with one hand, the other tentatively stopping on top of Luke’s shoulder while Luke sits straight, legs hanging out of the bed and taking a deep breath as he stares at the floor, as if to gather courage. His hands grasp at the ends of the bed, knots white, and as Ashton follows his eyes to the floor, he sees where the gown ends, exposing the skin of Luke’s legs, or at least from his knees down, and he kicks himself mentally for paying attention to things like that.

 

“Okay, what do I do?” he asks, voice a bit cracked like he’s the one doing some inhumane effort.

 

For his luck, Luke doesn’t seem to find that annoying or absurd at all. He just smiles at him, closer than they’ve ever been, looking him in the eye with still lazy baby blue eyes. “Just—like, if you can, help me support my weight so I don’t fall if my legs fail me, you know?” and Ashton nods, even if he’s still as clueless as before, growing more and more nervous by the ticking second. Luke seems relieved though, adds with a chuckle, “Sometimes they do. And it’s very embarrassing, when I can’t support my weight, but I’ve been working a lot on physiotherapy for the past weeks so that doesn’t happen.”

 

Still they stand there in silence for another second, Ashton retrieving his hand that suddenly feels intrusive on Luke’s shoulder, Luke taking short breaths with his eyes focused on the floor.

 

“You’ll get your wheelchair soon, though, right? So we can move around a bit,” Ashton teases, poking him on the arm like the twelve year old he truly is.

 

“Yeah, sometime by the end of the week. It’s easier on the wheelchair, to move around, but obviously they don’t want to get me addicted to it just because it’s easier. I can move a bit with the crutches, but it’s hard, and my legs hurt, I get tired. That stuff,” he shrugs, looking at Ashton again.

 

It hits him like a train, then, that he’s been with Luke since he woke up, and it’s probably been some long twenty minutes. He parts his lips, frowns a bit. “Fuck, you want to piss, don’t you? And I’d never shut up.”

 

Luke laughs, shrugs again. “I mean, it’s okay. I needed some time to get mentally prepared for the crutches anyway,” he laughs a little, looking down at them once more.

 

Some part of him is painfully aware that he should tone down politeness, but still he offers, too: “Do you want help with—?”

 

Almost yelling, tone way too loud, Luke shakes his head vehemently, says, “God, no. What, no. Just need help getting up. Like, myself. Getting myself up.”

 

Nodding slowly, he lets himself smile, hand now on Luke’s arm, murmuring, “Alright, let’s do this, then, enough with the mental preparation.”

 

Luke’s probably done this with nurses before, having been here for almost seven weeks already, but Ashton is well aware that it was probably never like this. Luke’s eyes are on him the whole time,and it makes it a bit hard, focusing on holding the crutches with one hand, his other palm on Luke’s arm as Luke breathes in one last time, gathering courage to climb off the bed. All Ashton wants is to stare some more, take this moment where there’s no shame to just look at him, and look at him some more.

 

But Luke does climb off the bed, holding his breath as his bare feet touch the floor, and if Ashton’s hand slides over Luke’s arm to behind his back, pulling him just a little closer, he can always blame support, tell himself and Luke and others that all he was going for was making sure Luke wasn’t about to fall.

 

(Ashton knows a thing or two about falling, all right.)

 

“Okay?” he still asks, voice failing him where his hands don’t, one still holding the crutches, the other bringing just the side of Luke’s body closer to his.

 

Luke half-smiles, looking like he’s doing some thinking of his own, nods quietly, one hand going over Ashton’s shoulders to give him proper support, but Ashton barely feels him there, his touch light and unsure, eyes on Ashton the whole time.

 

He breathes in and out again, frowns and looks away like it does pain him to stand. Ashton hands him the crutches, tries to support him through it until he connects his arms with the crutches.

 

Luke really is taller than him, though not by much. He wants to comment on that, make some joke about how it’s an accomplishment on its own, since Ashton is already tall, but he keeps it all to himself, a bit dumbstruck by the proximity, and then Luke’s already making his way to the bathroom of the room, feet supporting him but for short periods, and though it does look absolutely tiring, there’s something beautiful about it, too, like coming back from the dead, only in terms of walking.

 

When Luke closes the door behind him, Ashton sits back on the armchair, staring at the ceiling, swearing under his breath.

 

What a fucking stupid thing to see beauty in.

 

#

 

“Tell Ash about our castaway life,” Mali-Koa teases with raised eyebrows and a smile. She throws her feet over the coffee table as if that proves a point, her expression something between challengingly bitter and plain amused.

 

To her benefit, Michael still pauses the game, _Resident Evil 6_ for PlayStation 3. Ashton holds his breath because he’s not sure how to react, controller still in his hand, but Calum sort of chuckles, and that seems to ease the mood.

 

The four of them are hanging out in the living room, both of Calum’s parents in the kitchen working together on some pizza that is probably premade anyway. It’d been uneventful until then, like a cropped out scene from a different time, back when everything was still bizarrely normal. Ashton walking in on Michael and Calum having an argument over who’s the best at something irrelevant—who could metaphorically swim without tiring for the longest, in this case—and then short hugs, sprawling on the living room carpet, taking the first game at hand, and whenever one dies, the loser loses the controller as well, and the one out waits. If both players lose at the same time, they argue until one gives up, and that’s how they settle things.

 

Then Mali-Koa comes down the stairs, sighs heavily and drops next to Michael on the couch, and maybe it’s just Ashton, but he feels the change in the atmosphere, and it probably _is_ just him, because he knows how Calum operates and doesn’t know about her. Calum will ignore almost everything to avoid real conflict unless absolutely necessary, will prefer to pretend like it hasn’t been almost a week since the accident and since they’ve probably last spoken. But Mali-Koa, well.

 

“It’s nothing that dramatic,” Calum says, his voice quiet but a smile playing on his lips. It’s Ashton’s cue to relax, that nobody’s going to blame him and this isn’t about to start a hate fest for Ashley either, but he still can’t bring himself to look away from the frozen screen. “It’s not like we’re having to play Uno with each other every night. It’s not like I’m winning every single night, either.”

 

He hears Calum chuckle, and then a muffled noise. Ashton looks up, and Mali-Koa’s still holding the cushion she used to hit her little brother. They both laugh a little, and then she shakes her head, readjusts on the couch, pulls the cushion to her lap, Calum on the carpet close to her, Michael giving her a curious look.

 

“It’s not true, by the way. I’m better than him, but the jerk keeps pulling the +4 cards,” she glares, Calum just shrugs. “It’s boring, though. Not like there’s much to do,” she sighs, throws her head back and closes her eyes. “Just wish I had my cell phone. To hell that I can’t go out, can’t get drunk. I can deal with that. I just wish I could have my cell phone back. I’d give anything for five minutes on the phone with Angelica.”

 

Ashton doesn’t know who Angelica is, but he guesses someone important.

 

They’re quiet for a second, then Ashton pays attention to the obvious details, like how Mali-Koa’s face looks normal again in the dark even if it’s not really. If he pays really close attention, he’ll see her nose crooked to the side just a little, but he doesn’t want to, glances back at Calum and catches his eyebrow, already looking good, like it’s scarring well. There’ll be a mark there, mostly covered by eyebrow or distracted by the movement of his eyelid, but there’ll be one anyway. He wonders who removed the stitches, if it could have been Anne and she just forgot to mention, or didn’t even want to.

 

“I only accept cash,” Michael says, eyes down on the controller on his lap, hands still holding it. Mali-Koa stares at him, much like everyone else, and he cracks a smile, offering her his cell phone. “Here.”

 

She parts her lips, eyes darting to the phone, but still says nothing.

 

“Jesus, just take the phone and call your friend already. If your parents catch you though, say the phone is Ashton’s,” he winks.

 

Mali-Koa laughs but her laugh is different, happier and just _better_ , and when Ashton stares at him, offended, Michael just shrugs. She runs to the downstairs bathroom without saying thank you, but how they all stay quiet for a second longer even after she leaves pretty much says enough, brings something in each of them that can’t be voiced right now.

 

So Ashton voices something else: “Tomorrow is—What happened is officially a week ago tomorrow.”

 

Michael presses play again, Ashton frowns and presses pause.

 

He’s on the floor next to Calum, Michael sitting cross-legged on the couch, and though the pointy look Michael gives Ashton tells him how he feels about it, too, he turns to Calum, raises his eyebrows until he’s got his attention, and with his voice as quiet as he can make it, he asks: “Have you forgiven Ashley or?”

 

He tells himself he doesn’t want to sound judgmental in case Calum hasn’t, but he knows where Michael stands and he can’t have Calum agreeing. Calum gives him a look, parts his lips but his voice doesn’t come right away. Gradually, Ashton can see himself making up his mind about speaking, just as he sinks down a bit more, until he’s practically lying on the carpet, knees bent and arms crossed behind his head, sighing heavily and taking his time.

 

Ashton presses his lips, ready to insist, but that’s when Calum speaks.

 

“I never had anything to forgive her for. I didn’t speak to her anymore in the day of the crash because I was too worried about Mali, had to make sure she was alright. I do wish we could talk, though, but it’s not like it matters anyway. My parents won’t let me any near her; they’re not even letting my out of the house,” he snorts, makes a face.

 

And if he says nothing in response, absolutely nothing at all, he doesn’t think he should be held responsible for his silences. He’s thinking, trying to find holes in parents’ plots to keep their children safe from the people they should be eager to keep them close to. What happened was a simple mistake, he tells himself, and that’s about it. Could have happened to anyone, he repeats in his head like a mantra, and Ashley still loves them all every bit as she loved a week ago, feeling insecure about her life on finding out her ex was in town, knowing about a party but being unsure on going.

 

He’s quiet, because he’s thinking of a way out of this mess.

 

He needs one. So he can share his happiness like Luke said.

 

Ashton starts the game again, and it takes Michael by surprise, makes him swear under his breath, and when Ashton scolds at him, says, “Don’t fucking swear,” they all chuckle.

 

#

 

Every time Ashton looks at Joy, she’s studying him, as if deciding whether he is or isn’t a good influence for Calum. Nobody else seems to notice and Michael doesn’t get the same treatment, which Ashton knows is fair considered how Michael is Calum’s age and he’s older, supposed to be wiser, more responsible. But through dinner, it keeps bothering him, more and more by the second, even though whenever he catches her looking and she doesn’t look away in time, she gives him a polite smile, and takes another sip of her juice.

 

David treats Ashton as he’s always treated him though, and Ashton wouldn’t expect any different. Calum’s father is just happy that his children are alright, and the thought soothes him so much that he doesn’t even find it in him to be jealous. It’s just—he finds himself looking back at Joy.

 

They eat four big pizzas, everyone except for Joy and David eating the slices with their hands, just the married couple eating them with a fork and knife. They make small talk, about school and about Mali going back to college soon, and David talks a little about his work, and Joy talks a little about her cousin who’s coming to Australia next week.

 

After dessert, Mali-Koa passes Michael his cell phone not so discreetly but still nobody pays attention to it, and she’s smirking and he’s rolling his eyes with a fond smile. Ashton loves it, seeing at least part of his extended family feeling so comfortable around each other again, and by the time they’re all done, Ashton tells the boys and Mali to start playing without him, see if they’re up for a race game or something of the sort.

 

David excuses himself, tells Joy he’s doing the dishes but needs to check his emails first, and Ashton offers help to clear the table.

 

For a second they’re quiet, just the two of them in the kitchen, Joy sighing softly and suddenly avoiding eye-contact, Ashton working up the courage to speak. Then he clears his throat, raises his eyes to her, frowns a little when he says:

 

“I just want you to know that I don’t approve of what happened.”

 

There’s a pause, a change of atmosphere almost tangible, and then Joy is putting the plate she was holding back on the table, turning to Ashton, paying close attention to his words, and he feels like he’s on trial, like every word will be used against him sooner or later, but.

 

But he trusts his judgment to do what’s right.

 

“What Ashley did was irresponsible and reckless. It wasn’t right,” he shakes his head, making a face. “And you and Mum have been friends for such a long time—I just thought I’d let you know where I stand in all this. We work together at the video rental shop, but I don’t speak to her anymore.”

 

The next seconds are horrifying, Joy’s eyes on him scanning for the truth, and he swears he almost cracks, almost sweats and sighs and says he loves Ashley with all his heart, but instead she cracks first, or cracks a smile, that is, chuckles a little as she walks to him, places a hand on Ashton’s shoulder protectively.

 

“They’re my children, you know? And that girl endangered them. I can’t just forgive her.”

 

Ashton nods. “I know.”

 

Joy gives him a brief nod, and then tells him to go back to the living room, play some videogames with them, because she’ll tell them all to go to bed soon anyway, it’s a school night, and what were they thinking, a videogame marathon on a school night, such fool boys, etc.

 

#

 

Calum’s on his bed, Ashton and Michael on the floor lying on opposite sides, but they’re not doing a lot of sleeping. Calum is checking his social network accounts in Michael’s phone, and Michael and Ashton are telling each other ghost stories, or trying to anyway, doing more giggling than scaring, even with the lights out.

 

Times like these, he’s painfully aware of the undying child in his heart.

 

He wishes he can never let it die.

 

And then kind of suddenly, or feels very sudden for Ashton anyway, Michael takes a deep breath, facing the ceiling and not anyone, and asks: “So how’s your friend anyway? Still in the hospital?”

 

He feels like he shouldn’t be taken aback by that, by the cautious tone in Michael’s voice or how Calum seems to grow a bit rigid from where he’s sitting on his bed, but he still expects or at least hopes for normalness, for saying Luke’s name freely as if it doesn’t carry a curse.

 

Ashton nods.

 

“It’s not like he can just leave. The physiotherapy exercises take most of his day, plus I think they’re still running periodical tests just to make sure. It’s not so rare for stitches in the ribcage area to open up, so that may be it, too, even if he didn’t say a thing about it. Think he’s on morphine most nights, because of the intensive physio. He’s not walking properly yet, either, so yeah, I don’t think he’ll be ready to go home before a few more weeks. Technically the hospital can’t kick him out, if his parents are paying for the room.”

 

He’s resting his weight on his elbows, almost sitting up so he can properly look at Michael, because with the faint light coming from the moon through the curtains of Calum’s room and the light of the phone in Calum’s hands, it’s still not enough to take a look at what Michael looks like right now. Ashton feels like he’s owned it, to see exactly how that affects Michael, but before Michael can speak at all, he hears Calum, voice genuinely curious instead of so careful it sounds like it’s masking something else.

 

“Are you two dating?”

 

He parts his lips, but feels his throat too dry to reply at first.

 

“No, we’re not,” he says slowly, blinking a couple of times to try and get a proper look of Calum, too, wonders vaguely whether he’s blushing or if the burning in his face is just apparent to himself. “We’re friends,” he says, and because Michael snorts, he feels his mouth shape into an easy smile, shrugging. “I do mean it. We are still just friends.”

 

“Still but only for now, you mean?” Calum asks, and again Ashton shrugs.

 

He wants to ask how the fuck is he supposed to know these things, whether this friendship will ever evolve to something else, and if it does, whether his friends will back him up, encourage Ashton in this, too, like they have encouraged him to pursue other people in the past, and it never quite felt like it does now. Then again, it always feels like infinity at the time.

 

“You shouldn’t waste any time if you really care about him,” Michael says, his voice quiet and serious, and something in Ashton’s stomach sinks.

 

“What is that supposed to mean,” he states instead of asking, and Michael says nothing. It makes him feel insecure and uneasy, but he doesn’t dwell on those feelings. Instead he turns to Calum, says, “You know what? Ashley will be in my place tomorrow for lunch.”

 

The sudden change of topics makes a second of silence fall, and for a moment Ashton’s terrified that he shouldn’t have brought her up at all, that it’s too soon anyway, but then—

 

“Mum wouldn’t let me go anyway.”

 

He raises his eyebrows at Calum, a vague smile being brave enough to play on his lips. “I talked to her, think she’s going to let you come over if you ask. But you don’t have to come if you don’t want to. It’s just an invitation,” he pauses, looks at Michael. “For both of you.”

 

#

 

“Your mix is five songs long so far, but since one of the songs is called _Chocolate_ , I thought of bringing you some.”

 

Luke blinks a couple of times, head tilted to the side, a smile already on his lips like he’s never stopped smiling since Ashton last saw him. He’s sitting straight in his hospital bed, his phone on his lap, one hand curled around it, the other resting on his thigh. His eyebrows go up as he sees Ashton walking in his room without as much as a knock, carrying a supermarket plastic bag, sweaty hair slicked back, curls going everywhere, smile on his lips.

 

“Thank you?” Luke offers a little unsure, seemingly smiling more to himself than to Ashton, then putting the phone aside. “I was just telling Jack that all I need is chocolate.”

 

Ashton’s eyes light up, and he walks to the bed, taking the bar of chocolate from the bag. “Really?”

 

Luke pauses, looking at him with a smirk, then says, “No. I was actually telling him I think my physiotherapist has plans to kill me and all I need is to be kept away from anyone who works in this hospital, but chocolate was next in my list,” he teases, or it sounds a lot like teasing anyway.

 

Just rolling his eyes in response, he walks closer, hands him the bar. Luke smiles, takes it and starts unwrapping the package already. To keep himself distracted from his own thoughts, Ashton asks, “So have you been using the feature that types after your voice?”

 

Nodding, frown of concentration in his face as he unwraps it, he says, “Yeah. Real help there. I owe you one.” Ashton doesn’t really know what he should say or do after that. He’s glad, really glad, to have helped in any miniscule way. Should he say that, or just nod and say _you’re welcome_ , like expected? He’s clueless, lips parted, searching his head for something to say, and then Luke’s looking up at him, patting the side of his bed, and Ashton blinks a couple of times. “C’mere,” he half-asks, half-whines.

 

It’s lovely, it’s what it is, so that might be the reason why he even reacts at all, breaks from his trance, feeling himself blush slightly as he climbs on the bed, sits next to Luke, maybe too close, feeling the heat from his body from under the blanket, even if they still technically aren’t touching at all.

 

Luke barely catches any of that, just lets out an exclamation of victory as he manages to unwrap the package, breaking two squares, one for him, already putting it in his mouth, and with a mouthful, he motions for Ashton to grab the other square for himself.

 

He does, obviously.

 

“So is this a thing now?” Luke asks after a moment, after he’s done with the first square and breaking the next. Ashton blinks a couple of times, looking at him in the eye, and he _watches_ Luke change his mind about whatever was on his mind. How he holds his breath, bites on his bottom lip for a second before letting go and forcing a smile. “I mean, you coming here in the morning instead of the evening? You going out tonight again?”

 

“Nah, I’ll be home tonight. Just wanted to tell you that maybe Calum and Michael will see Ashley today at lunch? So if they all make up things will start to feel alright again. Wanted to tell you, is all.”

 

“To share?” he asks, raising his eyebrows, offering another square to Ashton.

 

His fingers, already feeling sticky, take another square, and he nods with a lazy smile. “I guess. You’re the one who’s a freak about how good it feels to share, right?” Luke laughs, murmurs a _hey_ , actually reaching and poking him in the arm, and Ashton laughs, lowering his eyes to his lap. “I actually biked all the way to the supermarket to get you some chocolate, because Harry had eaten all we had at home. What does that tell you?”

 

It’s one of these moments in which all air seems scarce, like no matter how hard you breathe in, all you welcome in your lungs is insecurity and time-slowing silly fears. It’s to think he’d work hard on avoiding Luke’s eyes, but he’s attracted to them like he’s never looked away at all, and of course Luke does some chewing on his lip, eyes on Ashton’s as well, but mind probably going fast, filtering thoughts, testing the words in his tongue before letting Ashton in on them.

 

Quietly, like he’s not sure how that will come out at all, Luke says: “It tells me I’d do anything so you never leave.”

 

Ashton sees it happening, him leaning closer until they’re inches away, Ashton holding Luke’s face even with sticky fingers, kissing his mouth, smiling against him, never having had a kiss that tasted so much like chocolate before.

 

But that’s not what he does, obviously. That’s a chance too big to take.

 

Instead he chuckles, reaches for the chocolate bar to break another square to himself, and says, more to the chocolate than to Luke, “I won’t.”

 

#

 

Two hours of sunny morning spent in a hospital bedroom, all chocolate gone and laughs filling the room enough that butterfly needles start looking like actual butterflies, colouring the room something prettier and shinier. For a second there, he catches Luke looking at him like he’s something powerful and pure and untouched, and he’s convinced he is all that—doesn’t even try convincing Luke of otherwise. Just sits there next to him, a hand tentatively going to Luke’s knee, and though it feels like taking a jump, he’s so ready for it.

 

Luke doesn’t tell him to retrieve his hand, doesn’t flinch away or make a face. He just offers him the shiest smile yet, head going a bit down, but then he looks at Ashton in the eye again, remembers of this one time Ben thought he could make hot chocolate for Luke and Jack, but it was the grossest thing Luke’s ever tasted. And Ashton can’t quite pinpoint what was so interesting and funny and lovely about this story, but while he’s listening to it, hand light and caressing on Luke’s knee, he can’t stop smiling.

 

#

 

11am and he’s back in his house, and he realizes he’s been taking Harry’s help in the kitchen for granted all along. With both Harry and Lauren in school—Harry to stay there for longer, Lauren to be back soon—he’s juggling cooking some pasta and making a sauce that hopefully doesn’t taste too gross, while he attempts to make some juice out of the fruit they have home. With his phone sitting inside a cup and the sound amplified, he hums under his breath as he does what he has to do, stopping twice to write down titles of songs he thinks should go on the mix he’s making for Luke, wants to have done by the end of the week.

 

Ashton misses 11:11, but more than fifteen minutes late, he makes a wish anyway, closes his eyes and presses his lips together.

 

Ashley comes before Lauren. He welcomes her with a brief hug, she helps him with salad, and there’s some small talk while they wait for Lauren. Ashton keeps looking over his shoulder, checking the door and raising his eyebrows at any sound that sounds like it can maybe be a car slowing down. At one point, Ashley frowns, and he just shrugs, says he’s not sure at what time exactly Lauren is coming.

 

Part of him wants to tell Ashley that he’s invited the boys, but then it’ll be two hearts breaking if they don’t show up instead of one, and he can’t have that.

 

By the time lunch is almost ready and Lauren should be home any minute now, Ashley sits by the table and crosses her legs, reaching for her phone and saying she wants to put some songs of her liking now if that’s okay. Ashton laughs, says yeah, alright, he’ll be right back anyway.

 

And he’s wanted Luke to text or call for what feels like an eternity even if it was only a week that Luke’s had his number. But he’s too nervous, feeling like he’s this close to just messing up a perfectly nice opportunity to have lunch with Ashley and Lauren for too high expectations that are bound to be frustrated. It vaguely occurs to him, that he’s the one who’s supposed to be supportive and helping, and not the other way around, but it still he knows who he’ll listen to, maybe the only person at this point. So even as he swallows back his pride, he locks himself in the bathroom and types a quick message:

 

WHAT IF THEY DON’T SHOW UP?

 

He stares at the little screen as if the response will be automatic. He wishes it could be, because the clock is still ticking and he can hear from the ground bathroom the music Ashley’s put for them from her own phone, thinks it’s something from The Glitch Mob, would bet anything that she’s dancing around his kitchen right now.

 

Ashton presses his lips together, murmurs, “C’mon, Luke…”

 

THEY WILL

 

He can’t help a little chuckle, rests his back against the door. Something in him also tells him it’s a bit pathetic, hiding in a bathroom to talk to a boy in a hospital instead of being back in the kitchen with his friend. But there’s only so many ways he can express concern for Lauren not being home yet, only so many ways he can dodge her eyes when she frowns just a tiny little bit.

 

So he types: AND IF THEY DON’T?

 

This time, the reply comes quite fast.

 

THEN YOU RUN AWAY AND START LIVING IN MY ROOM

 

He smirks, grins, feels the monster holding him hostage go away for a little walk. Ridiculous sense of safety embraces him and makes him puff his chest, smile on his lips never-leaving.

 

Before leaving the bathroom, he sends: GOOD PLAN.

 

#

 

Lauren gets home shortly after he leaves the bathroom. For a tiny little second, everything’s tense. He’d completely forgotten about Lauren’s hostility towards Ashley after the accident, how quick she was to blame Ashton’s best friend in the matter.

 

Lauren walks to the living room, drops her backpack on the couch, stares at Ashton with unbelieving eyes, refuses to meet Ashley’s eyes until Ashley raises her eyebrows, asks, “You okay, kiddo?” and Ashton thinks—honestly, frankly, he _really_ thinks—Lauren’s going to just flip her off, go on a rant that will make everything a thousand times worse, maybe to a point of no return.

 

He can see the conflict in Lauren’s head, how she frowns slightly before turning to Ashley, lips parted in confusion of what’s on her mind. Then she breathes in, presses her lips for a second, and when she breathes out, it eases his expression.

 

“I invited Ashley over so you guys could talk. You wanted to get some dye in your hair as well, right?” Ashton tries, voice quiet and careful.

 

But once her eyes are on Ashley, Lauren doesn’t look back at him immediately. Instead she nods quietly, and when Ashley smiles at her, says something about _well then_ come over and sit next to me and let’s just talk. And maybe it’s because of how absent Anne’s always been because of work, being the main source of money that needs to be enough to raise three, or maybe it’s just that Lauren takes it all back, can’t bring herself to hate Ashley, can’t just can’t.

 

She sits next to Ashley, looking a little unsure, her eyes going to Ashley’s hot pink hair, and then she cracks a smile. “That looks so good,” she offers a little timidly, and Ashley smiles widely, so she allows herself a bit of a freer smile, too.

 

Ashton rests his back against the wall, watches them interact like they used to before, Ashley and Lauren bonding over the silliest and smallest of things, the things where Ashton has no say in, the things where he’s oblivious and clueless or just inadequate. Ashley fills in where he can’t, and he’s so glad for that, because then at least, well, at least Lauren’s got someone.

 

Of course the looking over his shoulder to check the front door still makes his muscles tense to the point of getting uncomfortable like he needs new ones instead, but he glances back at his phone, remembers Luke’s words. And obviously he won’t run away from it if they never show up, but he sort of feels like he’s helping ‘unbreak’ what’s been broken, and if it doesn’t work at first, he can still try again. He blames Luke for the dumb optimism, the smile on his face as he puts a hand on Lauren’s shoulder and asks her why doesn’t she bring her phone so she can put on some music that she actually likes, as opposed to all of Ashley’s experimental and alternative songs Lauren has probably never heard of. They laugh, like that’s back to normal, like the accident never happened, and maybe it didn’t, if it means that Lauren’s back so quick with her phone in hand, Demi Lovato already playing.

 

Ashley starts dancing in no time, and at first Lauren just smiles, a bit embarrassed to join her, but when Ashton makes a dull attempt at dancing with Ashley to _I Really Don’t Care_ , Lauren rolls her eyes with a laugh, and joins them at last.

 

It takes maybe three or four songs, before Ashley complains about being hungry and Lauren joins her in the complaining, and Ashton’s giggly and getting tired anyway, feeling ridiculous but happy enough that it almost doesn’t sting as much, having lunch just the three of them, nobody ringing the bell or knocking on the door, calling them.

 

#

 

Lauren’s back to school right after lunch, actually hugs Ashley tighter than Ashton, and there’s something nice about it, too, like stars aligning or the evils of the world being somehow made right, all because his best friend feels better about her pink hair, and his little sister has let go of hatred and bitterness.

 

She’s too young to let those things consume her, anyway, and Ashton will do everything in his power so that Lauren is always too young for that, even when she’s a hundred years old, still far too young for the ugliness of those feelings.

 

Ashley sits on the couch next to him, one of Ashton’s arms around her shoulders, sighing softly as Ashley changes channels, still some time before they both go for their shift at the video rental shop.

 

There’s a nagging feeling like he’s supposed to say something big and important, an anticipation built that is probably just being nervous about Calum and Michael not showing up, but instead he stays quiet, watching Ashley surf channels and blink distractedly in silence for a while, until she settles for a rerun of _Friends_. He’s not a big fan, but it’s entertainment, and they’ve been entertained by far worse things in the past weeks.

 

It’s two episodes in when Ashley’s long kicked off her shoes, and Ashton’s hair is a mess because she keeps reaching for him just to mess his hair up out of boredom, that his heart stops for a second. It’s not because of her—or rather, it is, it kind of is, yes—but because of the door. The door up to then untouched, now someone knocking timidly on it.

 

And he just knows.

 

It never occurs to him that it could be just Lauren back to grab something she missed but would need at school, or Harry early, or even Anne. It just never occurs to him at all, because his heart starts beating fast, and though Ashley just keeps staring at the television, even if she’s clueless herself, he still feels a bizarre level of anxiety for her. Because of how badly he wants this to work out, how badly he wants everything to work out between all of them.

 

“I better answer that,” he tells her, and she nods, eyes glued to the TV.

 

Every footstep towards the door feels like a whole movie made of slow-motion scenes, and no matter how fast he wants it to go, it keeps slowing down again. Maybe it’s to contrast with his fast-beating heart.

 

His hand touches the doorknob, and he takes a deep breath.

 

Preparing yourself for the better can be as hard as for the worst.

 

Ashton opens the door, finds Calum fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, Michael behind him, looking away, arms crossed tight against his chest. Ashton licks his lips and tries to think of something better than just, “Hello,” to say, but that’s exactly what he ends up saying. Maybe he should ask what took them so long, or thank them for coming at all. But that’s all he can offer at the moment, and then he’s taking a step back to let the boys come in, closing the door softly behind them, stays there as he watches them walking in properly, Michael trailing behind.

 

Calum sighs heavily, or chuckles maybe.

 

All Ashton knows is: the second Calum sees Ashley’s pink hair resting lazily against the couch, he walks to her like it’s simple magnetism. She must feel it, too, because she turns in time to see him, and it’s something pretty, how she frowns and parts her lips, and how slow it is for her mouth to shape into a smile. Still not slow enough that by the time he’s walked behind the couch she’s already on her knees to be on level to wrap her arms around his neck, and the way they hug, it’s something he could watch on repeat, back rested against the door, accepting his place in the background for this, from his angle only really seeing how Ashley shuts her eyes to hug Calum, how tight he must be hugging her back if she sort of smiles in the middle of it, laughing against his shoulder.

 

“I missed you, you loser,” she says, tone quiet and touched, but they all still listen. Calum just laughs, says something nobody but her gets, and then she’s back to hiding her face in the curve of his shoulder.

 

It’s been only a week, but a week is a hell of a long time to spend thinking the people you love hate you. And it must be just as exhaustive to spend a whole week hating them, which is why Ashton walks to Michael quietly, bumps his shoulder.

 

Michael’s staring at the floor, arms still crossed. He barely registers Ashton to his side, nostrils flared and lips pressed together.

 

Calum lets go of Ashley, and she jumps over the couch to hug him properly, and he laughs, nearly trips over himself with the sudden attack, and with both arms still around her, he says, “Mali sent a message to you.”

 

From where Ashton is standing, he can see Ashley hold her breath, looking him in the eye. He tries peaking a look at Michael, too, but still nothing.

 

“Said, _next time I’m driving, bitch_ ,” he raises his eyebrows, a mocking expression on his face, Ashley immediately breaking the hug to punch him in the arm. He winces, covers the hit spot, elaborates: “Hey, I was just repeating what she said.”

 

Snorting, she shakes her head. “I don’t give a damn. Males don’t get to throw the word bitch around. That’s a women right.”

 

Calum rolls his eyes but ends up mouthing a half-assed apology that satisfies Ashley well enough, and then Ashley’s eyes meet Ashton’s for the briefest moment, before her eyes are on Michael, staring and staring until he looks up, meets her eyes. And though Ashton is standing right next to him, he could swear it’s like he’s not there at all, and neither is Calum, though he still has an arm around Ashley’s shoulders.

 

“I didn’t want to come,” Michael says, as an outburst.

 

Ashton presses his lips together so he won’t interrupt or interfere, knows this isn’t about him and he’s done as much as he could. But Calum’s sighing softly and hurt, and Ashley’s still holding eye-contact, and he wishes he could just beg them to be reasonable since they all love each other anyway. He bites his bottom lip, glances Michael’s way once more, thinks he sees tears, but maybe it’s just a bottled-up teenager.

 

First she nods, but then she breaks from Calum’s embrace, takes tentative steps his way. And if he knows her well, knows how bad she is at confrontation and how easier it is for her to just abstain and pretend nothing happened, well—to just say it, say, “But you came anyway,” it’s as big as the world. She’s exposing herself and trying, trying so hard, and it’s the type of inspiring moment Ashton wishes he could make into a shot and keep it for an emergency where he needs immediate courage in his veins.

 

As if mimicking her without really noticing, Michael nods slowly, too, presses his lips together and frowns, looking away from her. He sniffs, tries to keep his composure, but who is it for, if they’ve all stripped from their demons so many times for the sake of each other? It’s pointless, all this holding back.

 

But Ashton knows things about holding back, knows it wouldn’t help if he pointed it out. So he sighs and watches it happen instead, how he breathes in and out, and tries to filter not his—inevitable—words, but the way they come out.

 

“I’m just…” he holds his breath, pauses. “I’m so tired of being scared all the time.”

 

And that’s maybe the one thing they all have in common and have always had. Maybe it was never Ashton, the glue that kept all his friends together. Maybe it was how scared they’ve always been of one thing or the other. Maybe that’s it, why they needed each other so much, and how easy it was to fall apart.

 

Knowingly, she smiles softly, takes a few more steps, stops right in front of him. “You think I don’t know that?” she stops, and though it’s a full sentence, it still feels too sudden. Ashton recognizes the tone, knows she’s tearing up before he even looks at her face. “I’m so done with being terrified, Mike. So done.”

 

Michael laughs.

 

“So what happens now?” he asks, voice small and vulnerable, like maybe they all are, in spite of their impressive heights and how invincible they all look after some drinks. Still small. Still vulnerable. Still young.

 

And _oh_ , that’s right. That’s why.

 

Ashley looks at Ashton, then.

 

“What now?” she stares at him, with a vague smile that tells him she’d go along with whatever he said. It’s remarkable, really, how her utter trust translates to her tone of voice, and how the pieces start falling together, Ashley’s hand pulling at Michael’s shirt even as she looks at Ashton, pulling him closer as he builds the courage to hug her.

 

Calum’s looking at him, too, with raised eyebrows and an easy expression on his face.

 

“Now,” Ashton takes a deep breath, looking at Michael as Michael turns and looks back at him, arms awkwardly finding their way to Ashley’s waist, still unsure, still needing the extra push. Ashton smiles. “Now we face our fears, and tell them to go to hell.”

 

And regardless of how bad that sounds, it still gets them all smiling and cheering.

 

#

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i can't believe it's already 9/13!!! :O i really hope you guys are enjoying it, having as much fun reading it as i had writing it, and keep the beautiful feedback and wonderful comments coming, because i'm pretty sure i'll end up printing them all so i can cover my bed in htsal comments and just roll around with a permanent smile on my face. yep. that sounds about right.   
> THANK YOU. (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:・ﾟ✧♥♥♥


	10. Chapter 10

After his shift, he goes to the hospital. It’s the second time in the day, and if he’s not keeping track, Luke’s brothers definitely are. They’re both there when Ashton arrives, one smiles politely, the other plainly ignores him, but still when Luke asks them to go for a walk, they leave.

 

With Luke sitting on the bed, holding the metal frame and his legs out, feet nearly touching the floor but not quite, Ashton tells Luke about every detail he can remember, sitting next to him.

 

It’s not close enough that their shoulders are brushing, but it feels like as a significant _almost_ as any other.

 

Luke listens to everything with this smile on his mouth, and maybe Ashton’s just not used yet to all the autonomy Luke’s been slowly conquering, but when Luke timidly says, “I told you they’d come,” and covers Ashton’s hand with his, well, it takes him by surprise.

 

He smiles, looks at Luke’s hand, parts his fingers further so Luke’s fits between his. Their hands fit together easily, and maybe all hands do too, but this still feels breath-taking, still feels like it’s enough to make Ashton fly.

 

He doesn’t stay for long, though.

 

Doesn’t want to get on the bad side of Luke’s brothers, is all.

 

#

 

Thursday is one of the most unnerving days he remembers having in a while, all because the day after is when he’s supposed to give Luke his mix tape. Luke texts him about it, saying he’s excited to listen, and though Ashton is one hundred per cent sure that it’s more genuine curiosity than mockery, he whines and stares at the screen not knowing what to say or do about it.

 

But Ashley’s humming under her breath all day, winking at Ashton a disturbing amount of times, and it makes him laugh each and every time.

 

If Calum can convince his parents that Ashton’s definitely the one taking them, maybe they can all go to the beach together on the weekend. That would be great.

 

Greater still if Ashton could take Luke.

 

#

 

“You’re nervous,” Ashley says, matter-of-factly, staring.

 

Ashton’s fidgeting with the burned CD he’s got in his hands. He barely even slept last night at all, spent too long trying to draw a cover that seemed remotely presentable, then throwing it away and starting over. Finally he settled for a drawing of hands, fingers barely brushing together. It’s just the outlines, really, but he thinks he’s done a fine job of exposing himself entirely too much. He’d never actually drawn a cover for a burned mix tape for any of his other friends.

 

Late night, it occurred to him that maybe Luke wouldn’t be able to listen to it. After panicking for about half hour, he texted him, asked him: SO HOW ARE YOU EVEN GOING TO LISTEN TO IT?

 

He was vaguely aware, in fact, of how impolite it is to text someone at such hour, but the nervousness of going through all the trouble of burning him a CD and Luke not being able to listen was just too great. He didn’t think he’d woken up Luke, though, not judging by how fast he’d replied, anyway.

 

ASKED BEN TO BRING ME HIS RADIO OLD PEOPLE STUFF.

 

Ashton chuckled, smiling at his phone. The thing about the voice recorded was that it didn’t really identify punctuation. But it was alright. He could practically hear Luke’s voice, see his smile. Which was probably not a good sign at all.

 

“I’m not nervous,” he retorts, eyes still on the CD.

 

From the other side of the counter, Ashley cocks an eyebrow, crossing her arms over her chest. “Right. You definitely look very calm,” she mocks, smile appearing on her lips. He rolls his eyes, she ignores him. “Relax, seriously. He’s going to love it.”

 

Ashton presses his lips together, nods slowly. And watches the clock.

 

#

 

Ashton has learned to appreciate the small wins. Not getting yelled at by people in cars when he crosses the street too fast on his bike, finding the janitor in the parking lot for a quick chitchat before getting in the hospital, skipping hellos from people he doesn’t like but smiling at all the people he does. Sometimes finding people he grew up around on the corridors, sometimes glancing back over his shoulder and trying to find Luke’s family, always glad when he doesn’t.

 

He counts it as a small win to not see them all the way up to Luke’s room, his nervous hand knocking on the door before pushing it ajar, clearing his throat, all made of unusual formality and honest-to-God gratefulness for the small things.

 

It’s another small win, how Luke’s actually sitting on a wheelchair, hands on his lap as he looks at the window, close to it, and then looks over his shoulder to meet Ashton’s eyes with a smile, looking so excited that it isn’t a small win anymore, but a gigantic win that he hopes stays with him through all the defeats life will throw his way eventually.

 

“Someone’s in a fancy wheelchair,” Ashton raises his eyebrows, closing the door behind him, resting his back against it, smiling back.

 

Luke flashes him a cocky grin, shrugs. “Did tell you I’d get it all to myself by Friday or so. Did all my hard-work on physiotherapy, got this beauty ready for a ride.”

 

Laughing at that, he shakes his head, walks closer to him, ends up sitting by the end of Luke’s bed. He parts his lips to offer for help when he sees Luke struggling a bit to turn his way, but then it’s alright and he’s still looking so happy, and it’s just. Really good, is all, to see him that happy.

 

“Congratulations on that. I guess we’re going on an adventure tonight, then.”

 

“I’m counting on it,” Luke tells him, tilting his head to the side mischievously, or something close to it, as close as it can be when he still looks like an overexcited super tall child. Ashton suddenly wants to comment on that, on how it takes his breath away a bit to see Luke so happy, but then Luke’s speaking again, saying, “So,” and extending the vowel sound for so long that it makes Ashton blink a couple of times.

 

“So,” he repeats slowly, narrowing his eyes.

 

Luke sucks on his bottom lip, biting back a smile, and it’s so unnerving for Ashton, to just sit there, watching him look like this. It makes him think of the most inappropriate things.

 

“Well,” Luke says after a pause, clearing his throat, “I was expecting something.”

 

It’s the type of thing that he doesn’t know why he smiles about. It’s just the overall, the situation, where he is in his life right now, where he is in this exact moment, too. It makes him smile or laugh and definitely blush, and it’s nothing Luke says, but at the same time it’s that, too. It’s everything.

 

“Isn’t my presence enough of a present? Lots of people would say I’m good company.”

 

Snorting dramatically, Luke rolls his eyes, gestures dismissively. It’s incredible for Ashton, watching Luke raise his hand enough for a dismissive gesture, something he couldn’t have done to save his life a couple of weeks ago, and that now comes so much more easily. “Point me to these people. They have no good taste.”

 

Ashton laughs, spreading his arms. “Hey!” Luke bites just the side of his bottom lip, where his lip ring once was, shit-eating grin on his face impossible not to mirror. Ashton shakes his head with a smile, takes the backpack off his back, sets it aside on Luke’s bed. “After our adventure, yeah? Have you been to the ninth floor?” Luke shakes his head. “Right. So that’s where we’re going.”

 

In retrospect, it should have been awkward, climbing off the bed leaving his backpack behind, walking to Luke until he’s standing in front of him, probably looking every bit of nervous and happy as Luke himself does. Asking if he can take him, Luke shrugging it off, and then Ashton just walking behind him, hands on the ends of the wheelchair, and taking him off his room. It should have been awkward or at least made him feel self-conscious, but the only thing in his mind as they leave the room is how badly he wants this, taking Luke to the end of the ninth floor corridor, where he’s spent so long when he was a child and there was nothing child-friendly in the hospital to do.

 

As soon as they’re out, Luke asks him about his day. Ashton gives him the drill, talks about Harry skipping school because he had a bad stomach-ache, and how that meant Ashton didn’t get his daily nap. Luke teases him for it, which turns into playful bickering of who’s got it worse for napping, and though they both end up agreeing it’s Luke, somehow Ashton still lets Luke get away with making comparisons between Ashton and a hibernating bear.

 

Nobody else is there in the elevator, so Ashton sets the wheelchair a bit to the side so he can look at Luke as they discuss progress in physiotherapy, and though they do it every single day, Ashton is just as fascinated as he was in day one. It makes him smile, resting his back against the wall, watching Luke talk about it in a careful tone, as if he’s actually afraid someone might hear and get offended at how he considers the sessions the same as hell.

 

By the time they reach ninth floor and the elevator doors open, Luke catches Ashton looking at Luke’s hospital gown. What he was thinking is that it doesn’t cover all that much of his arms and maybe he’ll be cold. He’s wondering whether Luke will be offended or think he’s weird if Ashton offers him his jacket.

 

What Luke says to catching Ashton looking is, “I know. They’re horrible. But I’ll get rid of them tomorrow. Mum is bringing me my clothes in the morning.”

 

Ashton nods with a timid smile, positions himself behind Luke’s chair again, and starts for the corridor.

 

First time he went to the ninth floor was with his mother. His father hadn’t been home for two days, neither Lauren nor Harry were around yet, and for the second time in the same week he just walked to the hospital from the house, even though it was dangerous and made Anne worry sick. He’d told her how lonely it felt, to be there all by himself, a big house for a small child, and he knew she couldn’t be with him, had to work, but still being in the hospital made him feel less lonely.

 

She took a break from watching patients, held his little hand in hers and told him a story about stars, about the universe, about the magic behind every little thing, about how all things work for a beautiful purpose that makes everything perfect in the end. At the time, he barely made any sense of it. Focused on the stars and the monsters that were actually good guys, the ones that patrolled the sky and went from star to star. When they reached the end of the corridor on the ninth floor, he wasn’t all that surprised to find a wall-length window, really just a wall made of thick glass with view to the city, high enough that he could focus on the sky instead of around him.

 

Sitting on a bench right next to it, they stared at the stars for a while, and she told him more stories. It never stuck to him, whichever stories she told him about in that day, but he always came back to the ninth floor, through every heartbreak and moment of delusion.

 

And now was time to share that, too, and make prettier memories from it.

 

Pushing Luke’s wheelchair, he doesn’t really see him, but he notices the change, Luke interrupting a story about how grumpy Ben was to bring Luke his only radio and CD player, how Jack made a comment or the other that Ashton never got to hear at all. Luke just stops talking altogether, but Ashton keeps pushing in silence, past nods of the eventual doctor or nurse, until they finally reach the end of the corridor, the wall-length glass showing the city and the night sky, as well as a faint reflection of them, Luke with his lips parted, blinking slowly, and Ashton with the proudest smile on his lips.

 

“You like it?” he asks, his own voice not sounding enough like him. Sounding like someone younger, maybe.

 

At first, Luke just breathes in, then he lets a little laugh out, nods, says, “Yeah.”

 

Luke turns to look at him, eyebrows raised slightly, and Ashton catches his breath, looking back at him, lets one of his hands wander from the hold of the wheelchair to Luke’s shoulder, touches the thin fabric of the gown instead of his shoulder properly, and though his smiles looks more nervous than anything else, Luke clears his throat, wakes him up from whatever daydream he was just about to have.

 

“I have an idea. Help me get there?” he points at the bench.

 

“Sure.”

 

Because he’s either a dork or plainly helpless, he walks to the bench, pulls it forward until it’s facing the glass instead of aligned to the corridor wall. Luke just watches in silence, an endeared look in his eyes that makes Ashton breathe in slowly, so he just stops looking. After that, he holds his hands to support Luke if he needs help at all, and Luke sort of rolls his eyes at how clueless Ashton is about this and maybe many more things, too. Luke holds his arms and then his shoulders to pull himself up, which seems to be what’s the most difficult, then easily sits on the bench, raising his eyebrows until Ashton’s sitting next to him.

 

For a moment, they’re quiet.

 

Both are looking forward to whatever the window can show them. As for Ashton, he’s hoping the city night will help him put two and two together. He sort of knows where this is going, can’t really feel something so strong in your guts and still ignore it, tell yourself it isn’t happening. But there’s so much more. There’s the weight on his shoulders still very much there, telling him he’s supposed to bring up the police to Luke, talk to him about that night, and about all the things that Luke has pretty much successfully avoided since he woke up.

 

Truth is, he just wants Luke to feel as freed as he does. He wants Luke to feel like he’s not holding back and not holding any grudges on the past. Ashton’s finally starting to feel that way, and he can’t have Luke not feeling the same.

 

He parts his lips, blinks slowly, still takes him a second before speaking. “Aren’t you cold with just the gown?”

 

Luke turns to look at him, something resembling a lazy smile on his mouth, but that’s not quite it, it’s something else. A smile, sure, but what it stands for, Ashton can’t decode. “I’m okay, but thanks,” he looks away, eyes back on the window or through it, who knows. “I used to think gowns were open on the back. Thank God they aren’t,” he adds, with a confusing mix of smugness and shyness.

 

Ashton smirks, looks ahead, too.

 

“What other things you thought were different about a hospital, before you had to stay here?” he tries.

 

And honestly, it’s a shot in the dark. If Luke takes it the wrong way, feels uncomfortable all of sudden, it’s all ruined, their extra time together and their front seat to one of Ashton’s favourite places in the world. But he likes to think that ever since around two months ago, he’s learned to progressively get braver and braver, bolder even, take more shots even if it means holding his breath in the decisive seconds of silence that could mean anything.

 

In his head, he fills that silence in the most beautiful ways he can imagine.

 

Then Luke sighs softly, says, “There’s a lot I thought was different,” he pauses, taking a deep breath. “I thought the rooms were colder and greyer, thought the doctors and nurses were colder and greyer, too. I guess I thought the food was inedible and if something horrible happened and you had to stay for a long time, you could never have your clothes back or eat food people brought you. I didn’t know staying could mean anything but a horrible thing,” he blinks a couple of times, licks his lips, shrugs. “I think I’d just never thought too much about hospitals, not more than any teenager who hates their life does.”

 

Ashton chuckles, and when Luke gives him a curious look, Ashton offers him his wrists, making fists with his hands and turning them up on his lap so Luke can see it, it all.

 

To a more unconscious level, he knows Luke’s probably noticed the scars already, can’t possibly have spent that much time around him and his hands without paying attention to his wrists. But he was always polite enough not to comment on it, so this feels just as big as showing them to someone for the first time. There’s the acknowledgement in Luke’s eyes when he blinks a couple of times, and then something seems to click inside him, not about what Ashton’s wrists represent but about what to do about it.

 

Leaning against him just a little bit, just so their shoulders touch, Luke reaches for Ashton’s wrists, and Ashton just lets him, doesn’t even hold his breath or thinks twice, not with the amount of times they’ve reached for each other’s hands already.

 

Except this time Luke doesn’t hold his hand, but the back of his wrists, lets go of his left hand and focuses on the right one instead, one hand holding it, the other tracing the marks with his fingertips so lightly it barely feels like Luke’s touching him at all. The angle is a bit awkward, makes Luke’s thigh brush against his, but Luke doesn’t even seem aware of it, holding Ashton’s wrist and memorizing the thin white scars under his fingers. Ashton blinks, looking at him, and only then Luke meets his eyes, with a small smile that makes Ashton press his lips together, quiet.

 

“It’s stupid,” Ashton says, but still doesn’t move, doesn’t pull away, only looks back to his scars, half-hidden by Luke’s touch.

 

Luke chuckles, shakes his head, kind eyes back at Ashton’s wrists, fingers lazily tracing every one of the scars. “It’s not. It brought you here. It made you who you are. You don’t have to be ashamed or apologetic. But it’s in the past, right?”

 

It’s in the tone of his voice, the blatant and unabashed care that would never not take him by surprise, no matter how many days they spend seeing each other for hours day after day after day, how many weeks of talking every couple of hours. It takes him aback not because he’s never had people care for him before, but because it’s still surprising how much he wants _Luke_ to care. And he does. That’s the part that still makes him catch his breath.

 

“It is,” he says, or thinks he does anyway, because his voice is so small and he’s doing such a poor job at keeping track of what he is doing, paying such close attention to what Luke is doing instead.

 

Luke lowers his head to meet Ashton’s wrists, and Ashton just catches the small detail of Luke closing his eyes before he feels Luke’s warm lips against his wrists and his scars, a soft kiss on each of the horizontal marks.

 

When Luke lets go and looks back at him, he’s pretty sure it’s all over his face, how gone he is for the boy, how badly he’d do anything in the entire world to not mess this up. Then Luke offers him a kind smile, and he’s left wondering who’s helping who heal from what.

 

“You know what’s the one thing I never pictured in hospitals?” Luke asks, raising his eyebrows, playfulness back to his lips. Ashton shakes his head slowly, retreating his hands back to his lap, feeling numb and unsure on what to do with his own body. “You.”

 

It’s like feeling the smell of rain before the downpour, or being in a rollercoaster while it’s still going slow. The calm and the silence is just as alarming, makes his blood feel like something vibrant against his poor veins that would never stand a chance against this. It’s forgetting all possible witty and funny comebacks, all in favour of looking back at Luke, closer than he ever was, and the memories from before, from all the pain and fear, dissolve in the timid smile Luke offers him, sucking on his bottom lip for just a second before Ashton parts his lips, but he doesn’t know what to say.

 

What could he possibly say that would match what’s in his head? It’s too much. It’s a turmoil of what-ifs, anticipation that would never equal anxiety, and the rollercoaster’s going up, and he knows he should make a move. It’s now or never, he keeps telling himself, like it’s a mantra, and his heart is going so fast that he’s worried Luke will listen soon.

 

He glances down at Luke’s lips, prays that he’s not reading this wrong, that he isn’t about to make his worst mistake yet. But how good would be his advice to Anne if he didn’t follow it himself? Sure, what if this doesn’t work. _But what if it does_.

 

So he swallows back doubts and insecurity, looking back at Luke’s baby blue eyes, full of determination and newfound courage, but as he starts rehearsing it in his mind, Luke just leans forward, and covers Ashton’s lips with his.  

 

It’s not shock, because it’s expected, but it’s something just as big. Infinity times infinity, is how he feels. Luke’s warmth, his body close, shoulders brushing and thighs touching, and still only Luke’s lips on him, but it’s everything. Luke’s lips against his, softly and surely, like it would take Ashton forever to do. It’s Ashton finding it in him to just do what he’s wanted to do a thousand times before, hand reaching for the side of Luke’s face, caressing as he kisses back, index and middle fingers parting where Luke’s ear ends, trying to find a perfect fit.

 

He doesn’t know when exactly he closed his eyes, doesn’t know when he stopped caring about still being in a hospital floor or the fact that this is Anne’s workplace. He knows all about what it feels like, though, to suck at Luke’s bottom lip like he’s watched Luke do so many times, tongue touching timidly the side where Luke had a lip ring. Luke sort of smiles against him, leaning into him more, a hand touching just under his collarbone, breaking the kiss, forehead resting against his, breathing out softly with his eyes closed.

 

Ashton pecks his lips once more, smiles against him once more, refuses to let go of the touch, the proximity, everything.

 

Infinity times infinity. That’s about right.

 

Then something occurs to him, and he puts the minimum distance between them, just so he can touch the tip of Luke’s nose. Luke frowns, looking at him, eyes squinting at the thumb touching his nose.

 

Ashton chuckles, though. “You lied. You _are_ cold.”

 

Luke lowers his head until it’s resting on Ashton’s shoulder. It makes Ashton hold his breath, but still he lets his hand slide up to Luke’s hair, keeping him close, letting Luke nuzzle his neck with a half-complaint and half-whine of, “I don’t want to go back to the room yet.”

 

With a silly smile on his lips, Ashton backs off from him, and it’s actually kind of everything—everything he wants to have every day forever, and everything he never wants to forget, and everything _everything_ —how Luke’s hand quickly attempts in an impulse, practically reflex, to grab at his shirt and keep him close. He lets go immediately and looks down with his cheeks turning pink, but it’s enough that Ashton feels something in his chest make everything glow. It’s his ugly bones, revisited by pink cheeks and blue eyes. Now they glow.

 

“Here,” he says, taking off his grey jacket.

 

Luke just stares at him for a moment, but doesn’t stop Ashton from helping him put it on, doesn’t even comment on it being maybe a size too small. He just smiles and nods but doesn’t really say thank you, doesn’t look like he can right now. And it’s so confusing, how Ashton could make anyone speechless, especially someone he cares about so much. Then he remembers: Luke kissed him. It was actually Luke, and not him.

 

And he smiles some more.

 

He touches Luke’s hand, intertwines their fingers, and when they both watch their hands, Ashton’s free hand goes to Luke’s chin, guides him gently back to Ashton, and he kisses him.

 

#

 

Back in Luke’s room, maybe an hour and a half later, they’re both sitting side-by-side on the bed, neither with their feet touching the floor, which Ashton feels is a pretty accurate metaphor of how he feels. And although all their kissing sure said a thing or two about how they feel about each other, it still takes Ashton some persuading to actually give Luke the CD he burned. Mostly, it took Luke threatening to tickle him, which was ridiculous in itself, but then Luke would just position his fingers strategically by Ashton’s waist, kissing his cheeks and chin and nose and not his mouth, and Ashton couldn’t tell exactly what was hilarious about it, but something was. Kept him smiling and laughing and shaking his head for quite some time.

 

“Alright, alright,” he sighs, reaches for his bag still on the bed, throws it on the floor after retrieving the CD, and when he hands it to Luke, he swears to God, the boy’s face lights up like he’s never held anything as dear as this. And he could kiss him forever just for that alone, but instead bites his lip, raises his eyebrows, asks, “Do you like my lame cover?”

 

Luke laughs, rolling his eyes, murmuring, “Shut up, it’s not lame,” and then he’s closer yet again, nuzzling at Ashton’s cheek until Ashton turns properly, holds his face, kisses his mouth, even if it’s just another innocent peck. “Can we listen to it? Together?” he asks, mouth brushing against Ashton’s, eyes still on his lips, both hands busy with the CD.

 

He’s not sure, really. It could get embarrassing fast. But he also couldn’t care less about himself right now.

 

So he just nods, climbs off the bed, takes the CD with him, [puts it on the player](https://8tracks.com/hulks/glad-you-woke-up/), and by the time the first notes of _Why’d You Only Call Me When You’re High_ start playing, he’s walking back to the bed, standing but stopping right in front of Luke, with that grin still in his face, and so is Luke, grinning so much that it doesn’t even feel like anything much when Luke puts both hands around his neck, brings him closer for a kiss, legs wrapping around his waist.

Then it sinks in, and it catches Ashton by the surprise for the tenth time tonight. He smirks against the brush of lips, and maybe he shouldn’t go that far, maybe it’s too much to ask for, but he touches the side of Luke’s thigh with one hand, the other on his waist. Luke just slides his tongue between Ashton’s lips, deepens the kiss with a small moan.

 

In the song, Alex Turner complains about thinking he’s seeing the person he wants everywhere, but probably just dreaming it up. Ashton thinks he’ll dream about this, too.

 

With the hand on Luke’s thigh pressing lightly, he kisses him back, can’t help the smile that creeps to his lips and keeps interrupting the kiss, until Luke’s hands drop around his shoulders and Luke actually laughs against his mouth, making him laugh back.

 

Luke raises his eyebrows, smile still in place. “You won’t stop smiling.”

 

“That’s a very bad thing, I’m sorry,” Ashton smirks, his other hand going up to Luke’s waist, too, as he tilts his head to the side unapologetically. “I’ll try to sulk more around you.”

 

Rolling his eyes with a smile, Luke unwraps his legs from around his waist, taps the place next to him on bed, and Ashton sits. They listen to the end of the song in comfortable silence, and though he kind of wants to ask Luke what he’s thought of it, Luke decides the end of the song is an excellent moment to lie on the bed. Still sitting where he was before, Ashton just stares at him, unsure on where he fits in this.

 

Then comes Luke’s hand pulling him down by the shirt, a contradicted, “C’mere,” coming out of his mouth until Ashton’s lying beside him, too.

 

 _Beat Up Car_ by Taking Back Sunday starts playing as he lies next to Luke, in a hospital bed bigger than his own single, but definitely not made for two people. It’s not the weight he worries about, but the space. Or something. He must be frowning, if Luke stares at him, amused, until he lets go, laughs to himself and nothing in specific, staring at the ceiling, shoulders brushing Luke’s, both lying on their backs.

 

As Adam Lazzara starts talking about buying some beat-up car and getting out of there, going anywhere the other person wants to go, Luke finds his hand again. It seems like he always does.

 

“I really like this one a lot,” he says, after the second time the chorus comes around, and Ashton thinks of maybe mentioning the concert he went this one time, but decides against it, just smiling proudly, squeezing Luke’s hand.

 

But Ashton knows what song is next, Bowling for Soup’s _And I Think You Like Me Too_ , and when _Beat Up Car_ ends, he’s already holding his breath, holding Luke’s hand maybe too strongly.

 

The guitar notes introduces the song, and he feels his shoulders grow rigid, and as the lyrics start, Luke sighs softly, turning to him, and.

 

And the thing is: Ashton’s had both girlfriends and boyfriends before. He’s laid with them in bed as well as done much more lots of times. He knows what it’s like, having someone rest their head on his chest. It’s happened enough times that he’s long learned to even his breath to not disturb whoever’s trying to find peace in his embrace.

 

Still, this feels like the first time anyone’s ever taken this shot with him, Luke resting his head on Ashton’s chest, his hand timidly wandering to his chest, his long leg tentatively brushing against Ashton’s.

 

His heart beating fast, more relief mixed with endearment than any other thing, one of his hands embracing Luke’s shoulders, the other holding the hand on his chest. Luke murmurs, “I do like you too.”

 

It’s by the end of the song already. He only gets to smile at that.

 

 _Chocolate_ by The 1975 makes Luke laugh, and with his fingers lost in Luke’s hair, Ashton absentmindedly asks, “What?”

 

“It’s just—the day you brought me chocolate?” he asks, letting go of Ashton’s hand on his chest just to trace the shape of his hand, fingers lazily going around Ashton’s fingers. “I could swear you were going to kiss me. I wanted you to.”

 

“Me too,” he says, or laughs, or something, then kisses the top of Luke’s head, which is better than having him move to kiss him on the lips.

 

And throughout the rest of the song, all he can think is whether he missed opportunities, or it doesn’t matter anyway, if it all just brought him to Luke’s hospital bed, cuddling on top of neatly-folded sheets, Luke still on his grey jacket and the hospital gown, Ashton on just a shirt with the sleeves cut, jeans, and still his socks, his pair of Converse kicked to under the bed when Luke insisted he sit next to him, after he got on the bed himself. It feels sort of ridiculous, in the most beautiful and wonderful kind of way.

 

It’s enough that he finds himself talking again, distancing Matty Healy’s voice from them, risking everything in the process, still too high on the now to even properly register what everything stands at the moment. “I think you saved me. I think you _are_ saving me. I don’t know how to thank you for something as big as that.”

 

Luke’s quiet for a second. Ashton’s ready to pretend he never said a thing at all, to accept that Luke was too engrossed in the song to pay attention. But he did, of course he did, just took his time with the understanding and putting words together in his head and then out of his mouth.

 

“I just listen. I don’t _do_ anything.”

 

Short sigh. Fingers running through Luke’s hair again, more lazily this time, like they do, in fact, have all the time in the world. “That’s the thing, though, Luke. For someone to listen, I have to speak up. And I so rarely do.”

 

Luke hums approvingly, or Ashton thinks he does anyway, and then he’s snuggling closer, his leg sliding between Ashton’s, and more than anything, it just feels intimate. It should scare him, how easy this all is, how desperately overdue intimacy with this boy is for him, but instead he enjoys it through more one or two songs. Panic! At The Disco brings _Northern Downpour_ to their room, Lorde sings to _400 Lux_. And it’s comfortable silence, comfortable soft touching, the eventual but rare occasion in which Luke hears something in the lyrics or the melody that makes something spark inside him, raises his head, kisses the curve of Ashton’s neck, then lowers his head to his chest again.

 

Shout Out Loud’s _Please Please Please_ starts, and Ashton knows the mix is almost over, and comfort becomes a hassle, because he knows he’ll have to leave soon. He tries reaching for the phone in his pocket without Luke noticing, but Luke just raises his head again, rests his weight on his elbow to look at him, see what he’s going to do.

 

Truly, he just checks the time. It’s way too late to still be in the hospital, doesn’t even know how come Anne hasn’t called a million times already. Must have run into someone who told her Ashton was in the hospital, probably.

 

But Luke chews on his bottom lip for a second, looking at Ashton look at his phone, then asks, “Please, please, please?”

 

Ashton laughs, raising his eyes at Luke. “Are you just quoting back to me a song you’ve just listened?” Luke nods immediately, unaffected. Ashton tilts his head to the side. “Please, please, please, what?”

 

“Please, please, please, stay.”

 

He parts his lips, still in the shape of a smile, but frowns a bit.

 

Because it’s a crazy idea, is what it is. He shouldn’t sleep over in a hospital room, mostly because he doesn’t know how Anne would react to that. It doesn’t even occur to him how Luke’s family might react if they find out, even if Ashton leaves early. But he never works mornings, and his reduced shift on Saturday is of only a few hours in the middle of the afternoon.

 

It’s not a good idea, but it’s one he sees himself taking, especially when he looks at Luke and he’s still waiting, wide-eyed and sleepy.

 

So he sighs, texts Anne saying he’s staying at the hospital, puts his phone on silent mode, can’t be bothered with the response, and says, “You win.”

 

Luke smiles, kisses him very briefly before lying back on his chest. With arms already around him and the first notes of _Heartbeats_ by José González starting, he asks, “I win what?”

 

“Everything. Everything you want.”

 

Ashton wants to ask Luke if he likes _Light Outside_ by Wakey!Wakey!, the last song of the mix, one of his favourite songs in the entire world, but he can’t even keep his eyes open for the first half of _Heartbeats_.

 

It’s alright, though. He falls asleep to Luke humming softly on his chest, hugging him close.

 

#

 

It’s the craziest thing, waking up in the middle of the night, his face buried between Luke’s shoulder blades, both his arms wrapped loosely around Luke’s arms, one of his legs entangled between his, too. His heart does something funny, beating fast and strong enough to jump out of his chest, but then he just nuzzles against the boy still wearing his jacket, smelling both to himself and to him, and the smile on his face doesn’t seem like it’s leaving any time soon.

 

But he knows he should.

 

Trying his best to untangle from him without waking up, he yawns in the middle of pulling himself up, climbing off the bed and making an offended face when his feet touch the floor. Luke sighs heavily at nothing and no one hugging him from behind, and it breaks Ashton’s heart a little, watching how he curls into a ball on instinct, his fists clenching around the sheet, until he’s eventually hugging his knees.

 

Yawning, Ashton tries wiping sleepiness off his face with the back of his hands, rubs his eyes until he feels he can see a little better in the dark. Completely dismissing how come there was a blanket over them that wasn’t there when they fell asleep, Ashton walks around the bed so he’s facing Luke, pulls the kicked away blanket up to his shoulders.

 

Ashton holds his breath, his hand caressing Luke’s shoulder over the blanket. He bites his bottom lip, bites back a smile in the process, his hand now hovering over his face, not quite having the guts to go and touch him, but then whatever, they’ve kissed and spent most of the night snuggling squeezed together in a hospital bed for one. He chuckles, shaking his head, and then getting closer, the hand hovering over Luke’s face definitely resting over the base of his neck now, as Ashton presses a chaste kiss to Luke’s closed lips.

 

He doesn’t have paper and a pen for a proper note, so instead he just sends Luke a text message and covers the phone microphones so he won’t listen to the annoying warning beep.

 

And then it’s out.

 

It’s early enough that depending on perspective it can still be considered late—it’s half past four—but as he starts on his way out of the hospital, he greets every single person he passes and meets his eye. Says good morning, or nods politely, or at least shoots them what he can only hope is his most charming smile. He’s just in it for the happiness of it all.

 

The janitor’s shift has obviously ended by then, although there is another one in the parking lot when he goes to retrieve his bike. They wave each other either hello or goodbye, Ashton isn’t sure.

 

It’s just too good. Everything is.

 

For the first time in a while, he’d go as far as saying that grey downtown has had colours splashed back on it. He swears as he pedals his way home that he’s never seen so much colour or so many smiles. It’s all beautiful, and he feels like he, too, is part of a grander scheme. A wonderful scheme where all things work out, because although it hardly feels like the end, he still got the boy.

 

Ah, and that he did. He got the boy, all right.

 

#

 

Ashton remembers his first kiss, both with a girl and with a boy.

 

His first kiss with a girl had been when he was thirteen, a classmate and one of Ashley’s closest friends. He was convinced there was never a girl prettier than her, and he was positively in love. Ashley had warned him against it, said she usually went for older boys, by a year or two, and, not his fault, but he just didn’t make the cut.

 

Yet, in one of Ashley’s birthday parties, he asked her to dance. They danced for a while, Ashton feeling her sweet perfume and hoping he hadn’t went overboard on his recently acquired cologne. After the song ended, and she jokingly congratulated him on only stepping on her feet twice, he offered his hand, and she held it. They walked outside, sat on the sidewalk for a while, holding hands while Ashton tried to decide whether it was worth it to risk it, going for a kiss with a girl who wouldn’t like him back anyway.

 

He decided for it, in an urgent and last minute call, pressing their lips together awkwardly, as she smiled against him and held his face, guiding the kiss, teaching him how to do it. For a second there, he had thought he was the happiest boy alive. Thought he had a girlfriend.

 

Next day, she was as indifferent as ever, making heart eyes to older boys.

 

Ashley had patted him on the back, refraining from the very deserved I told you so that was certainly stuck in her throat. Ashton was then the saddest boy alive, knew he didn’t have a girlfriend, but still he thought he could definitely taste her chapstick on his lips.

 

His first kiss with a boy had been on senior year, skipping class in the town’s _baddest_ bad boy’s car, the only person with whom he had smoked cigarettes. Personally he hated the taste, preferred weed by miles, but he liked brushing fingers with him as they shared a single cheap Malboro, sitting on the trunk of his car always at the oddest of places. The first kiss had been by the beach, car hidden by little sand mountains, as they pretended they were in the desert. The boy didn’t have any T-shirt on but insisted on the black leather jacket with silver spikes on the shoulders, which on Ashton would make him ridiculous, but on the boy, with the sides of his head shaved and a sad attempt for a Mohawk in the middle, it just worked. In his school uniform, he felt a bit pathetic, comparing his khaki pants with the boy’s skinny jeans, but it was by staring at the difference that he saw the boy bump his knee against Ashton’s, raising his eyebrows when their eyes met, a question hanging in the air that Ashton didn’t quite know how to answer.

 

At first he thought they were just friends, even if it blew his mind that a guy like him would be interested in being friends with a guy like Ashton. By then, he was also painfully aware of how he maybe felt attracted to boys and girls equally, though depending on numerous factor, his preferences changed fast.

 

This boy, though, not even a full year older than Ashton and looking like he had his life all figured out: this boy was someone Ashton wanted more than air itself. He was positive that if hell froze over and they were to kiss, Ashton would die.

 

But when the cigarette ended and they sort of ran out of things to talk about, he saw a side he hadn’t seen before, the boy shyly offering the palm of his hand like it mean something grand, and Ashton didn’t think twice before taking it, even if he could be ruining everything. He held his breath, and motivated by both reckless madness and the way the boy seemed to blush at how their fingers enlaced, he leaned in and pressed a chaste kiss to his mouth.

 

The boy practically gasped in surprise, letting go of his hand, and Ashton was ready to run, eyes probably never so wide.

 

Then he used his free hand to cup Ashton’s hand, and give him a proper kiss.

 

And Ashton floated.

 

#

 

He may be biased, but as far as first kisses are concerned, he thinks his first kiss with Luke beat all his other first kisses, or all his other kisses, period.

 

#

 

Nobody’s awake when he gets home. It bothers him a little that Anne didn’t call his phone, not even once, but he figures someone must have told her that he was staying at Luke’s room. He should feel some relief in that, but it’s still strange.

 

Like a teenager who’s sneaking back into the house after a romantic escapade, he holds the knowingly smirk on his face as he walks in the house in silence, clicks the front door locked, and makes his way to the corridor avoiding all furniture and walking slow as to not accidentally bump into anything.

 

In his room, he strips down to his boxers, leaving a pile of clothes to be dealt with later on the floor, and throws himself on the bed, staring at the ceiling with the widest grin.

 

His jacket is still with Luke.

 

Flashback to six weeks ago, he was in panic that a stranger was in a coma and nothing made sense anymore. Flashback to seven weeks ago, before the party, he wasn’t in panic, but wasn’t at ease either, lost and purposeless, drowning and drowning and slapping hands away when they tried to help him back up on his feet.

 

Now he’s happy. He’s genuinely happy.

 

All his family is healthy and well: Harry is doing better at football practice according to what he says anyway, but even if he isn’t, it makes him happy and that’s all that matters. Lauren’s got a boyfriend and has been doodling hearts on any piece of paper she can find lately, and on top of that, her grades are nothing short of excellent. He honestly believes his talk with Anne has opened her eyes a little bit to men—and who knows, women, maybe—around her, to at least be ready if love comes knocking on her door. Ashley is on good terms with Michael and Calum (and, by default, with Mali-Koa as well). His work isn’t really painful; it’s easy and bearable and his boss is almost never around. The customers are easy-going and mostly just people he already knows anyway, and Ashley’s the one who has to be polite most of the time, as he has some freedom to just hide in the stock room to do inventory every now and then. It may not be the job of his dreams, but helps pay bills at home and gives him both time and money to spend his free time in whatever way he wants to. Hell, maybe he’ll even try college again next year, who knows.

 

And then there’s Luke. There’s Luke and his smile, and his hands on Ashton’s, and how he got Ashton to open up, stop feeling like he may explode at any second. How his attentive kind eyes got Ashton on his knees, confessing to every obscure fear he’s ever had, all just to get to see Luke’s eyes on him for a little while longer. Luke who somehow sees something worthwhile in him, and that’s starting to catch: maybe he _is_ deserving of all this. Maybe he is deserving of happiness.

 

Now, there’s Luke and his kisses, too.

 

Whoever said people can’t have it all was just wrong.

 

#

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO HOW DID YOU LIKE THIS CHAPTER? 8)))) okayish???? LET ME KNOW YOUR THOUGHTS. ─=≡Σ((( つ•̀ω•́)つ  
> in case you didn't notice, there was a link to [the mix](https://8tracks.com/hulks/glad-you-woke-up/) ashton made for luke. i hope you like it as well!~ ♥


	11. Chapter 11

Things are weird with Anne.

This Saturday is her day off, so Ashton already expects having to tell his friends, Luke included, that he’s got something planned to just spend the day and night with his whole family. Lauren and Harry have probably already cleared their schedules so they can have their typical movie night, and before that, hopefully lots of unhealthy food. Maybe some beers after Lauren and Harry are in bed, if he’s lucky and Anne’s feeling good.

Maybe he’ll tell her about his kisses with Luke on Friday night, too.

But then halfway through his shift he gets a text from her, telling him she’ll be picking him up from his shift at the shop, and that’s as unusual as things get. He doesn’t remember being picked up from anywhere by his Mum since he was fifteen. It raises the hairs on the back of his neck, makes him uneasy for the rest of the remaining hours he’s got in the shop.

Ashley never quite asks, just means to. She keeps looking at him and parting her lips, but he dodges it every single time, coming up with a crazier topic each time. At one point, they talk about dolphins, even. Fucking dolphins.

When his shift is over, he quickly hugs Ashley goodbye and leaves for the four car spots parking lot in front of the shop. Anne’s already there waiting, sitting in the driver’s seat, knuckles white around the steering wheel, and though that should be precisely why he should start asking all the direct questions, instead he takes a seat next to her, smiles, thanks her for the ride, and turns on the radio.

They’re silent for the longest time.

It’s sort of a game, in the way that it isn’t really a game at all. Anne tries to build up the courage to say whatever she’s there to say, and Ashton tries to build up the courage to ask whatever he’s there to listen. Neither of them are very good at this game, though, and a variety of pop songs ends up filling the silence for most of the ride home. 

Eventually, though, she wins the game. Eyes dead ahead but voice still managing to be quiet and pensive, she tells him:

“Thing about people in hospitals, son,” Anne pauses, sighs softly. “Is we tend to forget why they’re there in the first place.”

Ashton tilts his head to the side, parts his lips. “What—What do you mean?”

“People are in hospitals because they’re sick, Ashton.” She tilts her head to the side a little, her sigh shows something different, maybe exhaustion. “Luke’s got a bacterial infection. He was started on antibiotics two days ago.” 

#

Ashton texts Michael:

LUKE’S SICK AGAIN. 

DIDN’T TELL ME SHIT, THOUGH.

#

Before they go home, they go and grab some groceries first. Ashton asks if it’s okay that he stays in the parking lot, whether Anne will need any help, but she just shakes her head with a thin line for a smile and says that it’s okay. 

Alone in his mother’s car, he breathes in and out through the mouth, staring straight ahead, over the car console and through the window, and then over other cars too, trying to see the sky and hope something will happen and tell him what to do or say or feel, but no angel comes down from the clouds, neither do they clear in the slightest.

It’s a cloudy day. Shit day for going to the beach.

Michael still hasn’t replied to his text from about ten minutes ago, and he supposes that’s okay, but still he unlocks his phone screen and accesses his messages. It’s not Michael’s contact that he scrolls to, but Luke’s. He reads his last message to Luke: 

MOM WILL FREAK IF I DON’T SLEEP AT HOME. SORRY. PROMISE TO STAY FOR REAL SOON. THANKS FOR THE DATE (YEAH, I’M CALLING IT A DATE). XX

Luke’s response had come at the first half of his shift, lazy and unpunctuated:

IT’S OKAY I WAS JUST HAPPY YOU STAYED FOR A BIT IT WAS DEFINITELY A DATE ADVENTURE EQUALS DATE ALSO LET’S HAVE TONS OF ADVENTURES TOGETHER 

At the time, it had made him giggle; he’d shown the texts to Ashley and she rolled her eyes, pretended to vomit, but the fondness was all over her face. Now, rereading it makes his heart sink to his stomach. He throws his head back against the seat, stares at the faded brown ceiling of the car, shuts his eyes for a second.

Then he types:

CAN’T GO TO THE HOSPITAL TODAY. MOM’S DAY OFF. SEE YOU ON SUNDAY. XX

He stares at the text written, wonders if somehow Luke will be able to tell what he really means. What he really means is a bunch of question marks that would fill the whole screen. After that, maybe a second text, asking: why the fuck do you keep insisting on my being honest if you’re not being honest yourself? Why the hell would you hide something like an infection from me? Did _I_ have anything to do with it? Would it be better for you if someone who carries all the dirt and filth of the world on his back would stop visiting and bringing that into your hospital room? Is that why one of your brothers always gives me the stink eye? But it doesn’t matter. Never mind that you never even once talked about the night you get shot, but don’t you think it might affect me too if you’re sick again? I know you beat an infection while you were still in a coma. I know these aren’t as serious as movies and medical TV shows make them out to be. But I also know you’re not well. Know now, by someone else’s mouth and not yours, and it really feels as if you were hiding this from me, and it stings. Why? Why? _Why?_

But he doesn’t alter the original text. Hits send instead.

#

Anne comes back with some brown paper bags, and he leaves the car to help her organize the groceries in the backseats. As he does, the first thing he says is, “So.”

She takes a deep breath, puts one of the paper bags on the floor just behind Ashton’s seat as he holds the others in his arms. One by one she puts them all either on the floor or on the backseats, depending of the contents and when she’s done, she slams the car shut and turns to him.

“Objectively speaking, an infection at his stage of recovery means high fevers, every now and then shortness of breath, and ultimately, worry that it has something to do with either the pleural infusion or the brain surgery. We’re hoping it’s not the latter.”

Ashton blinks a couple of times, standing in front of his mother. 

He parts his lips, ends up biting his bottom lip instead.

“You’re thinking if it’s in the brain, he might die.”

“It’s not that simple,” she shakes her head, crossing her arms over her chest and resting her weight against the car door. “If the infection is from the wound in the head, there’s a number of things that might not be so good. Depending on the area of the brain it gets to, it can mean anything from general loss of motor coordination to derogatory brain function, even leading to vegetative state,” Ashton snorts, sighing and looking away, and she interrupts him before he can say anything, adding: “Look, there’s a very small chance it’s that. There’s even a chance the infection doesn’t come from any of his wounds. It’s a damn hospital, Ashton. It’s filled with sick people who cough sickness all over nurses and doctors all the time. Someone’s bound to make a mistake, not wash their hands properly and end up touching his tubes or medication with it.”

Ashton covers his face for a while, rubs his eyes, ends up resting his body against the car right next to his mother, their shoulders touching in quietness.

“Does he know how serious it is?”

Anne gives him a humourless laugh. “ _We_ don’t know how serious it is.”

There’s a pause. He sighs heavily, massages his temples, listens to her.

“We’re treating it with the seriousness of the worst case scenario, but you have to remember he’s had an infection before, and took the antibiotics and he was fine,” she says, voice firm and full of certainty, using her mother tone rather than her nurse one. “Jing put him on antibiotics for twenty days. He started on Thursday. In a short time, he should be okay.”

Ashton curls his tongue on the roof of his mouth just to stop himself from talking. Anne doesn’t need to sneak a peek at the darkness of his thoughts at the present moment. He wishes he could stop himself from looking at them, too.

As if on cue, she distracts him from them, says: “Walker told me you were with him. Went to his room to give him his dosage and check his temperature, found my son in bed with the patient,” he lets out a small laugh, not really revealing her feelings on it. “Said Luke was in a rush to just get it over with so he could go back to under the thin sheets with you. Had your jacket on, I think, but said you were cold. Made Walker get a blanket for the two of you and everything.”

It should make him smile, Luke’s concern for his well-being.

It just makes him bitter that he was there in the room while Luke was taking his medication and being checked for high infection fevers. And he slept through it. 

#

He’d snuck three movies for them to watch, perks of working at a video rental shop in which he’s the one who does the inventory. It’s three mindless family comedies that make Harry roll his eyes dramatically even though he probably enjoys it as much as the rest of them, and they sacrifice their free time that could be with other people by putting all their phones in silent mode and squeezing together in the family couch for a movie marathon, eventually interrupted for more popcorn making and dinner.

Michael calls to check on him, but he doesn’t answer the phone.

When he leaves for the bathroom and grabs his phone over the kitchen island, he sees Michael sent him a message, too: DUDE, TALK TO HIM BEFORE TAKING ANY CONCLUSIONS. DON’T BE A DICK. Which he thinks it’s funny, in a way that isn’t really funny at all.

He sends another text to Luke. 

I’LL WORK SUNDAY MORNING. IDK WHAT TIME I’LL STOP BY. XX

#

It’s true, if anything. 

Working Sunday morning is usually something he absolutely loathes, the only morning he works in the whole week, but it feels sort of fair, working alternate Sundays, but it still means he works alone, talking to the eventual customer with a bright smile that makes his face hurt, fake to the core.

Luke doesn’t text him anything else, and he wonders whether he’s alright.

Then he remembers he’s mad.

#

Having lunch with his siblings on Sunday, Lauren spends an unholy amount of time avoiding the subject when Ashton asks about her boyfriend, only to eventually confess they’re not quite there with the labelling yet, and it’s _pissing her off_. He laughs, tells her not to worry, asks to know more about the boy just because it keeps his mind off things.

Harry’s very consistent with his pretending to vomit motions and his rolling eyes.

At first it’s sort of funny, and then eventually Ashton ends up interrupting Lauren, stealing a lettuce leaf from Harry’s plate just to prove a point, eyebrows raised, saying: “One day you’ll fall hard for someone, and I’ll remember to ask for Lauren to act just as disinterested.”

He regrets saying it almost immediately after it leaves his mouth. It sounds like something too harsh to say to a boy so young, but then Harry stares at him, and matter-of-factly, says: “I’ll have you know,” he pauses, very grown-up-like, making Ashton cock an eyebrow and Lauren laugh quietly. “That I’m already in love with someone. Her name’s Suzanne and she’s agreed to hold hands during our break. She even comes to watch me play football. So, like, I _know_ what love is all about, thank you very much.”

Ashton looks at Lauren, who’s smiling at Harry, and ends up laughing, too. “When did this happen, Haz?”

Harry shrugs. “I don’t know. I guess the first time I looked at her, I knew,” he pauses, staring at his plate, the tips of his ears getting red, and then he looks at Ashton again, frowning. “But that doesn’t mean I have to talk about her all the time.”

Lauren rolls her eyes dramatically. “Bet you do, too. Shaming a girl for talking about love is sexist. Don’t do that,” she stares, and Harry parts his lips to argue against it, but the argument dies in his throat, and he ends up shrugging and groaning a half-assed apology that gets Lauren happy again. Ashton looks at Lauren, a mix of amazement and pride, and she just gives him a tiny smile. “How cool is it, that all three of us are in love?”

He snorts.

(But doesn’t correct her.)

#

It’s hard balancing being mad and in love.

#

Ashton can only avoid Luke for so long.

And he knows, because he tries to make it as long as possible.

Thinking about it makes his head hurt but his heart ache. Whatever Luke tells him won’t be enough to make up for what felt like to be left out on the fact that Luke is sick again. So what he does is make sure none of his siblings need help with homework, and then asking a third and fourth time just in case. He watches some dumb TV he can’t focus on, texts Ashley back and forth, but she keeps telling him to stop talking to her and just go to the hospital already. He can’t help a chuckle, thinks that, in a way, it’s good that all his friends know what’s up, means that he’s talking at least, but then he remembers the one who prompted that change, and he’s burying his face in the couch cushion again, grumbling against it.

Harry pokes him on his ribs, and he nearly jumps. 

His little brother is making a face at him. Ashton’s taking all the space in the couch.

“There’s a House marathon that starts in ten minutes. I want to see it.”

Ashton rests his weight on his elbows, looking at his brother. “House? I thought you were into Ben10 and shit.”

Snorting in disdain, Harry pushes him aside until finally Ashton gives him enough space to sit. “No one past five is into Ben10.”

“You’re into Dragon Ball Z.”

“ _You’re_ into Dragon Ball Z.”

Sighing, he sits straight, gradually going back until his back is resting at an awkward angle against the couch, and he’s facing the ceiling. “Good point you got there,” he says, voice small, heart not really in it.

Harry changes channels until he finds the one he was looking for, throws his feet on the coffee table, and usually Ashton would tell him not to, or at least do some scowling, but he’s tired of running and his head feels heavy. He takes a peek at his phone, taking it from the pocket of his jeans, but still no new messages. 

“What are you still doing home, anyway? It’s getting dark. Thought you were going to see your boyfriend today,” Harry says, eyes on the television.

First he laughs a little, shaking his head. There’s something in him that compels him to just say goodbye to all drama, and hug his brother until Harry’s dramatically screaming for air. But he knows this is Anne, all over—this blatant acceptance, how no matter who he dates, boys or girls, his family will be just as accepting. It’s beautiful, really, and he knows he’s lucky. Which is why it comes so naturally when he says:

“I’d rather spend time with my family instead.”

But Harry glares at him. Actually glares. Ashton blinks a couple of times, ready to fight back, but Harry’s having none of it, apparently. He keeps his eyes off the television for all of ten seconds, just enough to say, very slowly: “Just—don’t.” 

And then his eyes are back on the screen, staring at the commercials, waiting for his show to start.

So, well.

He _doesn’t_.

Following his little brother’s advice can’t be too bad. 

Ashton nods, takes his set of the house keys, messes with Harry’s hair on the way out, and if he doesn’t correct Harry on referring to Luke as his boyfriend, then he’s just letting that one slide to save time.

#

The halls of the hospital seem unwelcoming. He’s walked past these people a thousand times before, both before and after Luke, knows it’s not personal when they don’t pay him any attention, knows there’s nothing unusual about how hurried they are, how chill the air around him is, how tall the ceiling and walls are. Still it feels threatening and attacking. 

When he reaches Luke’s floor, he stops on his tracks, blinking at the elevator doors opening before him, feeling a lump in his throat. Maybe he should have texted to tell him he was coming first. Maybe he should have called, or just not bothered at all. 

He fights off the urge to just press the first floor button and let the elevator take him away, walking out of it and onto the corridor, passing more people who don’t look back when he meets their eyes. 

A couple of steps away from Luke’s closed doors, he hears someone call out for him, a sigh that comes almost at the time of a, “Hey, you,” and when he turns, it’s Ben, Luke’s older brother. “Mum and Dad are with the doctors there. You may want to wait a bit.”

Ashton turns to properly look at him, sees Jack, who doesn’t like him much, with his back rested against the opposite wall, arms crossed over his chest, frown on his face. He’s chewing on his bottom lip like Luke does when he’s nervous. Ashton hates that he recognizes it so fast, could almost see Luke in the guy’s features if he was younger and looked livelier—that’s the joke, though, that Jack’s probably perfectly healthy and Luke is fighting a bacterial infection.

“Sorry,” he apologizes, not quite knowing what for, tucking his hands into the pockets of his jeans, and he’s ready to leave when Ben touches his arm hesitantly. 

“Why don’t you go grab a snack with us? When we come back the doctors will probably be out already, then Mum and Dad will take us home and you can spend some time with Luke. We’ve spend all day here anyway.”

Now, Ashton knows he owes no one excuses about why he wasn’t there before, knows Ben’s tone wasn’t accusatory, but still he feels the need to blurt out: “I was busy with my family before. That’s why I only came now.”

Ben gives him a half-hearted nod, Jack only cocks an eyebrow.

All the way down to the hospital cafeteria, Jack’s completely silent, trailing a little behind his brother and Ashton, but his presence makes itself well-known. If it wasn’t for the resemblance to Luke, then for his eyes burning on the back of Ashton’s neck the whole time. As for Ben, he sounds exhausted, but still he manages to keep himself talking, entertaining both himself and Ashton, telling him about how when they got there, Luke was in physiotherapy, and how insane it is that he’s getting better so fast, regaining his motor skills, and what a miracle it is, that the bullet could have ruined them forever, but only messed them up temporarily.

It’s easy to get caught up in this talk about miracles.

Ashton nearly forgets why it took him so long to go back to the hospital.

Once in the cafeteria, Ben asks for a sandwich and some orange juice, the sandwich for himself, the orange juice for Jack. If Jack is offended by his big brother still paying for his things, he doesn’t comment on that. Ben offers to pay for a snack for Ashton, too, but Ashton says he’s had something to eat before coming over, which is a lie, but it’s odd enough to be sitting there with Ben and Jack across from him, so he leaves the awkwardness as it is, without adding more snacks to it.

Ben asks him if he’s still in school, and when he says he isn’t, he gives a two-sentences long explanation of what he does and that he may or may not try college again next year. Ben seems like he’s putting an effort into getting to know him, which he supposes should be a good thing, but he’s so nervous, and the tired look in Ben’s eyes and Jack’s silence aren’t helping in the slightest.

It doesn’t take long for Ben to excuse himself ‘real quick’ to go to the restroom, and when he’s alone with Jack, he tries offering him a weak smile, but Jack immediately snaps at him.

“I don’t buy it,” he says, abruptly.

Ashton blinks a couple of times, looking at Jack and the way his teeth scratches again at his bottom lip one last time before he’s speaking properly.

“Ben says you’re doing Luke some good, that we should be appreciative that he has a friend or a _boyfriend_ —” he snorts, spites the last word as if disgusted. Ashton winces. “I don’t give a shit what he says. All I know is you’ll end up hurting him, and he’s in no shape to be hurt.”

His heart speeds up. There’s no telling what’s about to leave his mouth, but still he tries, either to defend himself or Luke, parts his lips and hears his voice crack, but Jack doesn’t notice, just shakes his head, staring at him, both palms against the table between them, as if he’s ready to jump across it and strangle Ashton if he as much as says something Jack isn’t ready for.

“You know how he ended up at that damn party two months ago? People from school invited him. They invited everyone, but Luke’s naïve, thinks when people hand out flyers it means they actually want them there. He was a fool and thought he’d actually _meet_ people there. Texted me the whole night, said how boring it was, how nobody would talk to him, everyone from school too busy with their friends and their girlfriends and boyfriends. He was all alone there.”

Jack pauses, raises his eyebrows, comes just a tiny bit closer. Adds:

“And he’s all alone now.”

It’s meant to sting, of course.

Still he didn’t know how deep it’d go, how much it’d make him want to just start crying. He doesn’t, though, of course, holds back the tears and hides the way his breath catches. Stares back at Jack and pretends like it doesn’t hurt him, too, how terrified Jack is. They all are. That’s maybe the worst part.

All he manages to say is a weak, “He’s not alone.”

Jack snorts, like he has before, but relaxes back into his chair, shaking his head, rubbing his hands on his eyes too forcefully, guaranteed to make them red. “Why? Because he’s got _you_?”

Ashton licks his lips, feels a hint of courage filling his chest and pulsing through his veins. “Would that be a problem for you?” 

But that’s still not the right answer, and Jack gives him a profoundly unimpressed look. “We’ve known, Ben and I, that Luke was gay, since he was twelve. I couldn’t care less that you’re a guy.”

Eventually, Jack looks away from him, and Ashton just waits. Because if that’s not the problem, he doesn’t want to think of what is—he doesn’t want to hear that _he_ is the problem instead. He’d prefer silence over that, or that Ben would choose this specific moment to be magically back, saving him from hearing what he doesn’t want to. It’s been such a long ride, to get him to accept that he’s as deserving of happiness as the next person, and then comes Jack, and with all his love for Luke and knowing him much better than Ashton could ever hope to… Now this. He presses his lips, looks away as well.

Jack isn’t done.

“Only one person visited Luke other than you, a girl, as much of an outcast as he was, but he was still in a coma, so we went and lied that she visited all the time—kind of hard to explain how come she never visited again after hearing he’d gotten a room for himself and there wasn’t visitor hours anymore,” Jack sighs heavily, rolls his eyes, and when Ashton glances his way, he sees the bitterness in his face. “I just don’t get it. He’s such a sweet kid. He deserved more than this.”

Ashton hates the past tense. Wants to point it out, but doesn’t think it’s his turn to speak yet. 

“So you like him,” Jack says, like he’s suddenly aware of Ashton across from him again. “So what, man? Do you plan on just heroically saving him from his failing body? Liking him doesn’t do shit for his infection or his weak muscles. He’s still stuck in this hospital, still struggling to keep himself breathing each day, physiotherapy draining him more by the second.”

For what feels like the longest time, Ashton’s quiet. He’s quiet until it feels as if his lungs are filled with something different than air and he doesn’t have any access anymore to how his tongue should work. Jack sighs, looks away from him as if he’s either suddenly shy or regrets some of his words. If he does regret them, in fact, he does nothing else to signal that. In no time, Ben is back, looking just as tired as before, obviously having washed his face, but with a small smile on the corner of his mouth.

He could—should—say something, but he’s not sure how his voice will sound.

“Mum called,” Ben says, taking the phone out of the pocket of his khakis, putting it on the table between them. “Says they’re ready for us, if we want to go. Mum will give me a ride back to work, Dad will want to spend some time with you before you go back to college—” Ben pauses abruptly, scans Jack’s face for signs that he’ll indeed spend time with their father. Jack just shrugs, takes a sip of his juice quietly. Ben makes a face, then looks back at Ashton. “Luke was happy to know you’re here.”

Ashton ignores Jack’s eyes when he smiles back at Ben.

#

His attempts of being polite and neutral towards Luke’s parents fall useless when he enters the room and Andrew has his arms around his wife, eyes bloodshot like he’s been crying. Ashton immediately sets his jaw, barely acknowledges them from that point on, and even when everybody says goodbyes—even a groaned “See you, I guess,” from Jack—Ashton is still staring at the floor with widened eyes, like the floor might at some point look back at him. He’s painfully aware of Luke’s eyes on him the entire time, but it’s easier to keep his head down.

When the door clicks closed and they’re all alone, Ashton sighs heavily, standing in the middle of the room, slowly allowing himself to look back at Luke. He has dark circles around his eyes, looks a little paler than normal, frown making him look serious and older, but other than that, he doesn’t look bad. He’s wearing his own clothes now, a pair of grey sweatpants and a black T-shirt that reads _You complete meSS_ , sitting cross-legged on his bed. The position itself should give away how much he’s improved since physiotherapy started, but Ashton can’t even take solace in that. He can’t even look away from the butterfly needle attached to, now, Luke’s left arm, where veins run bluer, just behind the elbow.

Ashton presses his lips together, Jack’s words echoing in his brain, and tells himself it’s not true, that there’s more to just struggling to keep breathing to Luke’s life. That he’s living, too, not just surviving.

“You’re staring,” Luke says slowly, voice careful, eyebrows going up.

What he wants is to half-smile and avoid confrontation, walk to him and cup Luke’s face with his hands, kiss his mouth and tell him just how much he’s missed him. Taste his lips again and smile against them. But he isn’t exactly in the mood for smiles.

He may not have given any of that away with his insistent blank stare, though, because Luke shifts uncomfortably in his bed for a second, before offering, with his cheeks painted pink: “So I can wear my clothes now, and that’s good, I guess.”

Ashton breathes out like he’s been holding his breath the whole time. He rubs his eyes, not aggressively like Jack had before, just feeling suddenly tired. He walks on tentative steps to Luke’s bed, but can’t make himself go very far. He stops by the end of the bed, hand holding the metal frame like it may fall off if he doesn’t hold it properly.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were sick again?”

His voice sounds so different he has to go back in it in his head to make sure it was him who said it, not a third person who’s angrier than he feels, louder than he normally is, shredded to vocal violence just so fear wears thin. Luke blinks a couple of times, apparently shocked, and Ashton immediately wants to apologize for his tone—but he stays where he is, feeling his heart beating so strongly against his chest he’s sure at any minute now, his heart will leave, too.

“Because it’s stupid,” Luke chuckles, or tries to, visibly nervous now, fidgeting at the ankles of his pants, staring down at it. “I didn’t want to bother you with that. I’ll be fine.”

Part of him wants to start screaming, like his father did before him. Wants to accuse Luke of being selfish, of keeping truths to himself just because sharing them wouldn’t be as comfortable. He wants to accuse Luke of a lot, point a finger to his face, yell so loudly nurses will come check on him, and tell Ashton to leave because he’s upsetting the patient. He wants to scream so his lungs won’t feel obstructed anymore. He wants to spit out everything ugly building up inside of him, wants to get rid of the scary sensation pulsing along blood in his veins. 

But a bigger part of him wants to fight DNA, the impulse, or whatever name it has.

A bigger part of him wants to talk this through, follow Michael’s advice and _not be a dick_. Talk to him. Use words. Use kindness until the half of him he inherited from his father turns rotten and dies.

Against all logic, though, he does neither. Battling between what side of himself to give in to, he finds himself lowering his head, looking away, too, and when he feels hot tears rolling down his cheek, he isn’t that surprised. 

He’s quiet for a moment, Luke looking up and watching him. Ashton feels his gaze but doesn’t look back, just shakes his head slowly, sighing, not even bothering to wipe away the tears. Not quite embarrassed, just… just something else. He could explain it if he tried. The hole in his chest is threatening to open again—that’s what he feels. Year after year after year of carefully sewing it back together, and now the stitches are giving in to time and tragedy.

Ashton hears the movement against the mattress, and it must be extremely difficult for Luke to move all the way to the end of the bed and closer to him, but Luke still goes through the effort, ends up sitting on his legs and reaching for Ashton, one hand holding the metal frame of the bed, hand close to Ashton’s, the other touching his face, thumb softly wiping away the most recent tears.

Ashton looks up, and can’t decode what he sees in Luke’s eyes.

“Can I kiss you?” Luke asks quietly, forehead touching his. 

Hopeless, he nods, one hand on the side of Luke’s body, the other on his neck, and it isn’t a hungry or beautiful kiss. It feels sad, tastes of tears, but it’s still Luke’s lips pressing against his, so it’s still a small dose of perfection he’ll hold on to. It’s quick, too, and when Luke pulls back, he sighs heavily, forehead touching Ashton’s again.

“They’ll know how well I’m responding to the antibiotics in the following days. It’s hard to tell now,” Luke tells him, voice as small as it was before. Unconsciously, Ashton’s hands pull him closer, need him like that. “But I do think I’ll be fine. Everybody does. Dr Jing is optimistic.”

Ashton realizes his eyes had been closed.

He opens them, pulls just enough distance between them that he can look Luke in the eye. “We have to talk, Luke.”

Luke pulls back, chewing on his bottom lip. He’s quiet for a moment too long, then says: “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I am. I just didn’t want you to worry. You already feel responsible for your family and your friends. I didn’t want to be your responsibility, too.”

And he notices the plot holes in his story, but his immediate reaction is to frown, look at him like Luke’s telling him something too silly to be considered. “But you are. Sure you are.”

Luke stares at him with a smile. 

Ashton closes his eyes, sighs, eventually shakes his head and walks around the bed, hopping up, sitting next to him. Luke seems to relax once Ashton’s next to him, but still turns so they’re facing each other, even if not touching at all.

“I don’t—” he tries, but interrupts himself. He has no idea how to go about this.

Luke gives him a look. “Can you forgive me for not telling you?”

Ashton chuckles, hand going to his knee, something in between caressing it and giving it a squeeze. “Luke, of course I forgive you. It’s not—I was mad. I think I still am. But it’s more at the fact that I can’t control your health. Which, yes, I fully realize sounds creepy, but I just—I want you to be okay so bad.”

Smiling at him, Luke covers Ashton’s hand with his own, until their fingers are enlaced. Looking at their hands, he says: “I will be. I already feel very okay.”

Tilting his head to the side with a small smile, Ashton takes a deep breath. “I’m glad. But that’s not what I meant when I said we have to talk.”

Luke meets his eyes, blinks. And then, even if Ashton still doesn’t say another word immediately, something seems to click for him, and he parts his lips, eyes suddenly pained and surprised at the same time. It’s like he knows, just knows, maybe thought about it before, wondered how long ‘til Ashton asked. And now he has.

“We need to talk about that night,” Ashton says.

Expecting it and hearing it directly are too far different, Ashton knows, but still he couldn’t be prepared for the look of betrayal in Luke’s eyes. And though up until now he’s been the one helping Ashton confront his fears, himself, and other people, Luke’s reply is so instant that it makes Ashton frown. 

He chuckles, takes his hand from Ashton’s, shifts uncomfortably until Ashton retrieves his hand. “We really don’t.” 

Pressing his lips, he shakes his head, ready to argue against that, because yes, they do. They should have talked about it a long time ago. It’s been two months since it happened, and still they haven’t even touched the subject, all Ashton knows are fragments of things that Jack spat at him or things he picked up on his own. It isn’t fair—not to Ashton, sure, for his own selfish reasons, but it also isn’t fair to Luke. All through his brave recovery from broken ribs perforating organs and a bullet in his head, numb muscles and disobedient limbs, he hasn’t focused on his mental health. And if he was the one to push Ashton through his own stubborn sadness, then he’ll return the favor. 

Or something.

“Luke,” he tries, and then he pauses, regains composure, clears his throat. “How the hell are you supposed to get over something that traumatic without talking about it? I mean, that was pretty fucking horrible. But bottling it up until you can’t take it anymore is worse, believe me—I know,” he snorts, shakes his head. Voice comes out smoother like he’s softened all the edges just for Luke when he adds: “You haven’t even talked to the police yet, have you?”

It takes him a moment to reply, to even meet Ashton’s eyes again. Without them touching anymore, it feels weird, feels like he’s intruding, like he’s lost all right to come and go to this room, into Luke’s life. He wets his lips, tries coming up with something to make it better, anything, but Luke’s already parting his lips unsurely, looking at Ashton with a face Ashton doesn’t know yet, so he stays quiet and waits.

By now, he’s known lots of different sides to Luke’s personality, has faced both coy and malicious, stern and silly, sunshine-spreading and cloudy-worried. He’s never seen this, though, the restrained look, the way his facial muscles seem to betray his thoughts a thousand times per millisecond. It’s scary not having a clue to what’s in his head, and more than ever, he’s compelled to just forget about all tense confrontation, regardless of how right it is, and just pull him closer, kiss his whole face, murmur in between kisses that he’ll never leave, never let anything bad happen to Luke, and fuck what Jack said: he’ll save Luke from anything, heroically caring for him like he has even through a coma, even when he didn’t know Luke at all. 

Courage is a funny thing, though. Once it settles in your chest, it stays.

So he waits, not changing his posture or body language. 

“No, I haven’t talked to the police,” he says, slowly, as if to get rid of what’s easier first. But even if Ashton can’t understand what’s in Luke’s head right now, he still can tell—he can tell that Luke will let the bad parts in, will eventually get to them. Hopes he does, anyway. “Mum wants me to, though. Dad has mostly given up, Jack and Ben don’t care, but Mum time and time again talks about bringing the cops again. There’s still time to come forward about it, she says, see if they can identify the man and put him in jail.”

And then he looks at Ashton, a little expectantly, like this is all he can manage, and it’s Ashton’s turn to speak. It seems like an abrupt change, though, and he has so little to contribute he ends up nodding slowly, not breaking eye-contact with Luke, adding what he’s learned from Michael: “The man who was a security guard, right?”

At first Luke narrows his eyes, stares at Ashton for what feels like a full minute, and Ashton presses his lips, takes it back in his head, but can’t do it in the real world. Instead he just parts his lips and then shuts his mouth again. Luke doesn’t ask him how he knows. He just ends up letting it go, nods quietly.

“I haven’t told anyone that, though. I just don’t want any trouble.”

Even though he knows it probably won’t do them any good, Ashton can’t help the snort he lets out, raising his eyebrows high as he stares at Luke. “You don’t want to be in trouble with the person who could have killed you?”

Luke winces at the word, looks away.

“Listen,” Luke says immediately, just to stop him from speaking more.

Ashton would listen. He’d listen to everything Luke had to say and more. He’d stay all night here, listening to the darkest version of that night, replaying it in his head for another two months as he skipped all responsibilities to stay in bed with Luke, preferably holding him close and telling him it was over, or would be as soon as the person was in jail. But Luke doesn’t say anything else.

It’s hard to meet his eye, with Luke lowering his head to stare at his lap, crossing his legs and putting even more distance between them. He reaches for him, touches him as kindly as he possibly can, lifts his chin just so he can look at him closely, considers whether he should stay where he is or come closer anyway, decides against it.

He supposes even right now as he looks at Luke there are plenty of bad scenarios this conversation could quickly turn into, but the way Luke turns his head away from Ashton’s touch, as if Ashton’s doing something unforgivable, it makes him blink, body coming back to the original posture, confused and feeling inadequate. 

“You don’t know what it’s like, okay?” Luke raises his eyebrows. He meets Ashton’s eyes for sure this time, and his eyes are filled with thin layers of tears, but he looks reluctant on letting them go. “I don’t want to think about that night. I want to forget it ever happened. You may have been there, but it wasn’t you. No matter how hard it hit you that someone could have died when you were around, it _wasn’t_ you. It was me. And it’s my choice to forget about it, so fucking respect it.”

And it’s a slap, or a million, Ashton’s not keeping track. 

Luke’s clenched fists, set jaw, how he seems to be giving all his strength just to keep himself from stuttering and crying himself to sleep. It’s the visible pain and how it stings stings stings, visceral violence rolling down a sharp tongue, directed at Ashton maybe because he deserves it, maybe because there was no one else to direct it to.

No, he’d take that back—it’s not like a slap. It’s a sucker punch in his stomach, the type that would take bile to his mouth almost immediately, make him spit blood in a matter of seconds. It’s that type of punch. And Luke’s still looking at him with those eyes, those hurt eyes of stabbing betrayal and uncertainty, and all Ashton knows is: he’s not strong enough. He can’t do this.

Perhaps Jack was right all along, and he should have listened, or perhaps it was Anne who was right, back in the beginning. All he knows is he was wrong.

He can’t do this.

His voice fails him the first time, but he tries again, either braver or weaker: “I should go.”

Luke shrugs, looks away, arms crossing over his chest, and it doesn’t escape Ashton how easily he moves his arms, how good this is for his recovery, but also how eager Luke seems to self-protect, and self-protect against what? The truth? _Ashton?_

“So go,” Luke says, a raw whisper that Ashton isn’t sure whether he was supposed to hear.

But he hears it, yeah.

#

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I CAN’T BELIEVE THE STORY IS ALMOST OVER (●´⌓`●) fsklfjlshgslkfjlds!!! i’m not sure what i’m supposed to do with myself when i finish posting this. SIGH. but alas!!!! thank you, thanks A MILLION for all the support. each and every comment here on ao3 makes me go: (✿ ♥‿♥)!!!!!!! and also for those of you who have been talking to me about the fic on [tumblr](http://daddirwin.tumblr.com/), you’re probably the reason why i’m so excited to go on tumblr every day now. 8) so to sum it up: hey—thank you.


	12. Chapter 12

“You’re home early,” Harry says, matter-of-factly, looking up from his homework. Apparently he’s found a new home in the kitchen table, covered it in books and notebooks, and is studying. As long as he’s focused on something useful, Ashton won’t complain about it.

 

Ashton half-smiles, closing the door behind him, walking to the kitchen island with dropped shoulders and his heart long sunk. Harry parts his lips, looking at him, and he could swear that his little brother sort of gets it, the complexity of it all, the pain in his chest, how he feels like there’s nothing left to do now. He’s about to ask for details on Harry’s homework or project or whatever when Harry clears his throat, seemingly searching his brain for whatever’s appropriate.

 

He appreciates the effort.

 

“Something went wrong, then,” he more asks than states this time. Ashton nods, offers nothing else, so Harry presses his lips together for a moment, and very quickly adds: “So I’ve decided I hate English,” he blinks, looking down at his notebook. “How can a language we speak fluently have grammar rules that are so hard?”

 

Ashton circles the table, sits down next to him, and smiles his first real smile in what feels like forever, even if it’s really just been a couple of hours.

 

“Lucky you your brother is an English genius.”

 

#

 

The night is the worst.

 

(Obviously.)

 

He rolls in bed and stares at the ceiling in the dark, starts mapping in his head every corner of his bedroom as if something might drastically change when he closes his eyes. Ashton makes up ghosts that never cared to show, makes them haunt him because no one else will.

 

Luke doesn’t call or text, and neither does he.

 

If his heart’s in the right place, he can’t see how he’s the wrong one here.

 

#

 

He makes up his mind about telling Ashley everything, sparing no detail, not even how he felt and Luke’s words, telling him to go ahead and just _go_. It’s part of a pact he’s made with himself, that if it really is the last he sees of Luke, then at least he’s taken something from it: he won’t let himself go back to the shell of a person he was before, building up fences so high that not even the closest people could see the end of them.

 

He doesn’t want to lose his friends to his own self-consciousness again.

 

It’s all told in-between clients, Monday as busy as ever, receiving weekend DVDs and on occasion helping customers decide on new ones to take. It’s around three in the afternoon when he manages to finally finish the story, and Ashley nods slowly, pulling her faded pink hair into a messy bun, wetting her lips to bide her time, and when she speaks, the first thing out of her mouth is:

 

“Must’ve been so hard for you.”

 

Ashton raises his eyebrows. “What was?”

 

She chuckles, as if the obvious shouldn’t be said—which would be silly. The obvious absolutely must be said at all times. It’s the obvious that escapes them all constantly. Part of growing up, he supposes.

 

“Confronting him about what you think is right.”

 

Ashton snorts, like that’s no big accomplishment, but he knows exactly what she means. It’s maybe because of how deep this goes that he just blinks a couple of times and turns to the side, looks away from her, elbows resting on the counter, she on the other side, sitting on the edge of her seat, staring back at him. The way she keeps looking at him indicates some type of expectance on epiphany, and it’s so funny, because he couldn’t be further away from it. Right now, he’s as lost as one gets.

 

“What do you think is right?” he asks, just so he would invite her into his thoughts, too.

 

Shrugging, she fidgets at the bracelets on her wrists. “Doesn’t matter what I think. I am but a side-character in the story of your life, baby.”

 

It’s her tone and how she gives him a soap opera-esque look that gains a smile from him, as he turns back to face her, his hand stealing hers from all the bracelet-playing. Taking her hand between his, he gives her a long look, his voice quiet but firm when he tells her: “You’re no side-character. You’re not an accessory to anyone, either. You’re not meant to be anyone’s anything—not be regarded as anyone’s friend or anyone’s daughter or anyone’s girlfriend. You’re your own person, okay? And just because some dick didn’t see value in it, doesn’t matter it’s not priceless.”

 

Ashley puts her other hand on top of his, bites on her bottom lip, staring at their hands together like Luke does sometimes, but the look in her eyes is so different. It’s a mix of both hope and doubt, of unconditional undying love but at its most platonic form. It makes him wait with sudden patience, too.

 

“I’m my own protagonist,” she says, as if experimenting with the word on her tongue. Ashton nods with a tiny smile, feeling his chest flutter with pride, enough to distract him from what they were talking about, and then, just as he was getting away with it, she adds: “But anyway.”

 

He laughs, actually laughs, pulling his hands away and rubbing his eyes, tired.

 

(Barely slept at all, but he doesn’t tell Ashley that.)

 

“I want your opinion, though, even if this isn’t about _you_ and Luke, but me and him. Do you think I was right to confront him about not talking about that night at all, not talking to the police, etc.?”

 

Ashley stares at him for a moment.

 

“What am I, Ashton?” and because that doesn’t earn her an automatic response, she gives him no more time to consider, and answers. “I’m a runner. I can’t deal with what’s right or wrong. I live on a big grey area. I avoid anything out of the ordinary until it catches up with me and I have no choice. If people let me, I’ll gladly pretend nothing bad ever happens. Denial is my true nature.”

 

Sighing, he looks down.

 

“You think I should have let him deal with it his own way.”

 

She lets out an unsure noise, wrinkles her nose. “That’s not what I’m saying. What I’m saying is you can’t ask me that, because I don’t work that way. You have a very strong moral compass, you believe in coming clean, couldn’t keep a real secret to save your life, keep feeling like you’re lying even when you’re not.” Ashley pauses, gives him a look. “You did the only thing you could have done. And he reacted the only way he could have reacted.”

 

It’s a good answer. It is. But it’s not what he wanted to hear.

 

“So there’s nothing to do. We’re too incompatible.”

 

His tone is defiant, raised eyebrows, like it’s a subtle attack.

 

Ashley doesn’t take it personally, though, just offers him a kind smile. “Stop assuming I’m saying things I’m not actually saying. What I said is that you did what you could, what you would anyway, and so did he. There’s not necessarily a wrong one here,” she raises her eyebrows, too, just as defiantly as him. “Whatever happens next is up to you two.”

 

#

 

Ashton remembers what two months felt like when he was still in school. Two months of vacation, what a joke—it passed in a blink of an eye, day after day just idly walking around the house or getting a ride with Michael’s or Calum’s family and going to the beach to spend the day with them. Nothing exciting could ever happen in two months. Certainly nothing life-changing.

 

But this is the new normal.

 

Now, two months are all it takes, and the road to his house straight from work with no intentions of going to the hospital at all in the evening make for the most painful path he’s ever angrily pedaled through.

 

He doesn’t even know what he’s angry about.

 

Not himself. Not Luke.

 

Life, he supposes.

 

#

 

This night is worse than the one before.

 

He sleeps fast, but his nightmares are all made of flashbacks that get creative in the end. It’s his father leaving but taking Luke with him. It’s himself sinking razors down his arms but Lauren’s skin bleeding instead. It’s the car crash, only Mali dies this time. It’s the party where Luke got shot, but his arms are around Luke when the bullet meets his head, and when Luke falls there’s nothing to be done. It’s Luke telling him to go, but also telling him to never be back, to not look for him, sometimes adding that he’ll be gone anyway, with an eerie tone that makes Ashton’s skin crawl, sometimes just sounding like he doesn’t care.

 

It’s only past one in the morning and he’s already dreamed about all that is worst to dream about. All the bottomless falls and the drowning seas have visited him, and he was a prey to all predators, from fantasy monsters to hungry tigers. Everything’s ruined and destroyed him in different ways, and now he’s sitting straight on his bed, sheets long kicked to the floor, forehead sweaty, hand shaking as he stares at them, wide-eyed.

 

But he forces himself back to sleep.

 

He’s underestimated the weight of a silent heartbreak.

 

#

 

Tuesday he wakes up early in the morning with a text from Michael.

 

It’s before he’s up to help his siblings. He hasn’t woken up in about two hours, which is such a win, such a peaceful sleep when compared to the hours he’s had before. Still he reaches for his phone in eagerness, thinking it might be someone else.

 

Michael’s text reads: BEACH TODAY? ASHLEY’LL PICK US UP @ SCHOOL.

 

He frowns at the light coming from his phone, sighs heavily, still takes him a minute to type back a reply. WHAT TIME?

 

The reply is immediate. AS SOON AS OUR PARENTS LEAVE US IN SCHOOL. SHE’LL PICK U UP. BE READY.

 

Ashton groans against the pillow, but looking up at the window, though it’s closed, he can see the sun sneaking a peek from in-between the cracks. And he could use a day in the beach, to surf and get his mind off things. Off Luke.

 

K. SEE U SOON.

 

#

 

He’s the first one Ashley picks up, still so early in the morning that he’s just said goodbye to his siblings and mother, barely taken a bite off his toast. She urges him to _get in the fucking car already_ , though, so he goes. The Tutsis already playing in her radio, and for a few first minutes, they just enjoy the music together, Ashton eventually succumbing to Ashley making faces as she sings loudly and off-key, and joining her in the song just as horribly. They sing to _Do I Have To Look For Love?_ for a while, until they stop at a red light, and it hits him like a brick: she’s driving. Which, as far as he’s concerned, she hadn’t done since the accident.

 

He wants to ask if she legally _can_ , but figures it wouldn’t make much of a difference to her anyway. Instead he asks: “Your Dad’s cool with you taking the car again?”

 

She nods. “Yep,” she says, simply, but it can’t be just that, so after reaching for the radio and lowering the music volume, she blurts out: “I kind of guilt-tripped him into letting me take the car again. Said he didn’t trust me anymore because of one mistake, and that nobody had gotten seriously injured, etc. Probably best not to mention it to Mike and Cal’s parents that it’s me driving, though.”

 

Ashton shakes his head with a small laugh. “Or that you’re even with us at all, to be honest,” he adds with raised eyebrows.

 

Instead of being offended, which he considered, she just laughs it off, nodding vehemently, eyes on the road as she takes a turn. “Not that I think they’ll be eager to comment on their day skipping school, but.”

 

And even though he hasn’t slept much in the past two days and it feels like everything hurts, his head especially, he actually giggles. Actually fucking giggles, at the prospect of his friends telling their parents about skipping class with the one person they don’t want to see at all. Maybe it’s whatever’s left of his reckless teenage years, but laughing about tragedy seems like a newly acquired skill he was supposed to have had for the past few years already. He looks at Ashley, shaking his head, the shadow of a smile still in his lips.

 

“I miss Luke,” he says, suddenly.

 

What he says surprises him the most, because as Ashley’s face blanks, he frowns. He wants to take it back or apologize for bringing him up, but Ashley just sighs softly, stealing his turn to speak.

 

“It’s only your second no-Luke day. One of you will eventually come around. For now, though, focus on the smell of salt in your nostrils, the clingy sensation of being too close to the sea but not quite there yet. The sand between your toes, your clothes fucking itching for forever,” she laughs, looking beautiful with her pink hair loose against the wind caused by the rolled down windows, and he smiles back.

 

He stops himself from asking more about what she says, about one of them eventually coming around. He stops himself from dwelling in the subject, pushing it until she’s sick of it. He wants to open up, sure, but he also doesn’t want to bore his best friend to death. She’s right, after all, even though they’re not so close yet that he can smell the ocean. They’re on their way to school, which is the opposite side of town.

 

But it’s probably better if he doesn’t think of Luke or of missing him or of how disgusted he seemed at Ashton’s apparent betrayal when all he wanted was to bring some closure to Luke—Ashton purses his lips, looks out through the window, at the passing buildings and people. Shit.

 

Luke probably doesn’t miss him like Ashton does.

 

Picking the boys up at the school is absolutely ridiculous. The second Ashley parks the car in the next block, they see the vice-principal around the corner talking to someone’s parents, and they both duck their heads so fast they almost hit each other. After a sudden fit of giggles and still down, Ashley texts Michael to say they’re there, waiting.

 

Minutes pass of smiling mischievously at each other as they sneak a peek to see if the VP is still within eyesight, eventually Ashton giving Ashley the thumbs up so they can be back to normal on their seats.

 

They look at each other with bewildered eyes, smiling.

 

Maybe part of it is the excitement of being this close of being in trouble, but already being out of school and with trouble much more complicated than just the VP catching you about to skip school, Ashton tells himself they just did it to prevent Michael and Calum from getting caught.

 

It proves to have been absolutely useless. The two of them practically parade from the way to the school gates to Ashley’s car, with raised eyebrows and greeting smiles, discretion miles and miles away. They hop in the car after their loud hellos, and Ashley gives Ashton a look that tells him she’s thinking the exact same that he is: they’re such idiots. (But it’s unclear who the idiots are, if Michael and Calum, or Ashley and Ashton.)

 

It’s strange, definitely.

 

On the one hand, Ashton’s definitely heartbroken. He’s had one of the shittiest nights since that party, feels as if his bones are screaming from exhaustion and yet his eyes won’t give in and just close. He keeps going back to two days ago, in Luke’s hospital room, the look in his eyes, how he didn’t let Ashton touch him, murmured that bitter _So go_ when Ashton didn’t really want to go, but didn’t know what to do there either. So there was definitely that.

 

On the other hand, even after everything that happened recently— _especially_ after everything that happened recently—it feels as if they’re closer than ever. They seem to flow better, in a way, as if all these years their friendship was as good as it could get at the time, but now that they’re all slowly changing, they’re also being drawn closer together.

 

And that is the strangest thing, because a few weeks ago, Ashton could swear nothing could glue them back together after falling apart so drastically with the car accident. But here they are, in a fucking car, with the same person driving, and they’re all screaming the lyrics to _Basket Case_ from Green Day at the top of their lungs.

 

After that one, come others. But they’re still singing, and Ashton feels that something in his chest that can only be there when you’re around people who truly love you. He loves them back.

 

The beach in itself involves a whole lot less surfing and a whole lot more sitting on the sand and talking shit about teachers. It’s sort of refreshing, really, in the weirdest kind of way. None of them bring surfboards and they decide they’re all too broke to rent any boards, so they end up sitting side-by-side, and while Michael insists on from time to time collecting as much sand as he can in the palm of his hand and throwing it at Calum—to which Calum fights back with horrified looks and throwing himself on Michael to what he says is wrestling but seems like aggressive cuddling—it’s mostly peaceful.

 

They’re all sitting on a towel Ashley brought, and at some point, she decides to put her phone in the middle of them all, and Purple’s _DMT_ starts playing, a bit too punk rock for Ashton’s taste, but definitely enough to get Michael honest-to-God screaming in delight. Ashton laughs, lying back until his head and half his torso aren’t on the towel anymore, but he doesn’t mind the sand nearly as much as he makes it sound with his whine.

 

Ashley slaps his leg so he makes more space for her, too, takes off her shirt, the boys ignoring her sports bra and taking it as a bikini. And it’s nice, it really is, how in a couple of seconds they’re all taking off their shirts, Ashton using his as a pillow behind his head, Calum twisting his to slap Michael’s bare stomach (earning an offended look).

 

“I feel like this is the best moment to announce that I met a girl,” Michael says out of nowhere, one hand around Calum’s arm to stop him from hitting him again.

 

Ashton raises his head and rests his weight on his elbows so he’s looking at Michael, sitting on his legs looking like an over-excited puppy. Calum just rolls his eyes and smiles fondly, clearly already knowing the story, and Ashley straightens her back to sit cross-legged, giving Michael a long look that at first seems like worry, but quickly turns to mockery.

 

“You have to introduce her to us. Mummy needs to make sure she’s good enough for you, baby,” Ashley says, raising her eyebrows and making a kissy face.

 

It’s so ridiculous that it sets Ashton and Calum laughing loudly, Calum throwing his head back exaggeratedly, but maybe it’s the sun and how good the morning weather feels when they’re so close to the sea. Michael’s embarrassed, of course, but just shakes his head with pink-touched cheeks.

 

Murmurs: “Shut up,” but then sighs softly, biting his bottom lip for a second before going on. “She’s in our year, so I guess I didn’t really just met her now, but like, we started talking for real just now. Her name’s Geordie.”

 

Calum raises his eyebrows, looking at Ashton and Ashley, and singsongs: “She’s got five colours in her hair.”

 

Ashton actually snorts, Ashley laughing again, Michael swearing under his breath and shaking his head, apparently changing his mind about talking about this. Then Ashley pokes his knee with her feet, her toes nudging him non-stop, until he looks up.

 

“What?!”

 

“Do you like her?” Ashley asks with a smile, an honest one.

 

At first Michael rolls his eyes, but then no one else teases him, and silence falls between all four of them for a couple of seconds. Michael ends up nodding, a small smile on his lips.

 

“Yeah. I do.”

 

Ashton turns to Calum, “And is she nice?”

 

Calum raises his hand, going up and down on the sides, as if to say, _eh_. Michael gives him yet another offended look, and Calum breaks into an endeared smile, his hand on Michael’s shoulder, squeezing softly. When he lets go, he looks back at Ashton.

 

“Good music taste, informed and opinionated. She’s cute and makes heart eyes at Michael whenever he’s telling his lamest jokes. She mocks him sometimes but always makes sure he knows she doesn’t mean it. It’s been sickening to watch them dance around each other and pretend like they aren’t flirting, dying to ask each other out.”

 

There’s mutual understanding going between them that this is a girl they can see themselves hanging out with in the future too, if things work out between her and Michael. At least that’s what’s on Ashton’s mind when he looks from Calum to Ashley, and Ashley gives him a tiny nod. Michael frowns at them but still looks down with a smile that tells them all enough.

 

“We’re not—we don’t—” he stops, sighs. “Geordie definitely doesn’t look at me with _heart eyes_. The fuck.”

 

Calum just shrugs in response to that, reaching for Ashley’s phone, typing the password they all know by heart, and searching her music library. Michael looks at Ashley and Ashton with unsure eyes, as if asking what to do, and though Ashley’s the one who smiles the widest, it’s Ashton who speaks.

 

“You like her. Do something about it.”

 

He recognizes the hypocrisy in his words—that he does like Luke, a lot, and he’s not doing anything. But he feels as if he’s done his fair share, and from now on, it’s not up to him anymore. Plus, his and Michael’s situations are so different. He had taken the first step, or sort of anyway, had been the one to get closer, even if it was Luke who kissed him first.

 

It’s a matter of _logic_ , but still he quietly asks himself why Luke did it, why he had kissed Ashton in the first place. It occurs to him with sudden sadness, that if he’s already questioning whether Luke even cares at all, then maybe they’re off to a bad start.

 

“I might ask her out. Eventually,” Michael adds quickly, getting Ashley to roll her eyes dramatically and throw her body back on the sand until she’s lying next to Ashton. Ashton smiles at Michael. “It’s just scary as fuck. If she says no, there’s no way our friendship will be the same.”

 

Calum glares, but says nothing.

 

Ashton just gives him a small smile, nods. “I get it,” he pauses, then pulls himself to sit cross-legged. “Want to go for a swim, Mike?”

 

Because Ashley’s lazily lying there, half on the towel and half on the sand, enjoying the new song Calum chose—a much chiller one, the RAC mix of Grizfolk’s _Hymnals_ —and Calum is definitely too focused on Ashley’s phone and anything it might offer, Michael stands up even before Ashton does, eager and… happy. No other word for it: just happy.

 

And Ashton’s so happy for Michael.

 

He supposes that’s what friendship’s all about. He feels as if this thing with Luke is making him physically sick, but then Michael flashes him this smile of pure bliss, and he’s happy, too, racing him to the water, hearing behind him the insults that Michael lets out because he took off first.

 

#

 

In the water, he loses track of time.

 

At some point Michael decides he won’t go any further, just lets his body drop with a splash in the water, and the waves are only up to their waist, so though it seems high enough when Michael sits, Ashton still stands there for a while, laughing and shaking his head, arguing against it, arguing until he can’t take Michael sending awkward half-hearted kicks in the general area of his ankles.

 

Eventually, that turns into them going even closer to the shore, sitting side-by-side by the wet sand, the waves coming and licking their legs. It feels good, to feel the water against his skin in the sunny morning, even if the sun is more gentle than ruthless.

 

They enjoy silence for a while, until Michael looks at him, and when he asks, Ashton’s sort of seen it coming, can’t really blame the look in Michael’s eyes: “Did you talk to Luke about him being sick again?”

 

Ashton nods, quickly fills him in on all the exchange, and even if the details start feeling like wounds he’s overexposing, he tells himself this is what friends do: they share things. All the time, he fights against his urge to close off again.

 

But he succeeds, at least this once more.

 

Michael doesn’t tell him anything that Ashley had before. He never indulges Ashton in his wondering on right and wrong, instead ignoring those parts altogether. First chance he gets, Michael gives him a long look, and says, “Why are you still here? You have to talk to him.”

 

Ashton rolls his eyes. “I don’t think I can just go back on what I said. I honestly believe it—I can’t just—especially because he said that I should go indeed, so like… yeah.”

 

Out of all the things Michael could have done, he punches Ashton in the arm.

 

It isn’t with enough strength that it honestly hurts, but it’s still surprising enough that he winces, covers the hit spot with his hands and stares back at his friend with an insulted frown.

 

“You don’t agree. So what? Fuck it. You like him, he likes you. Talk it through. Find a way to be together anyway.”

 

Michael isn’t much younger than him, but in times like this, Ashton just gives him a soft smile, because anything he could say would be entirely too condescending. Michael has never truly had his heart broken—and Ashton frankly hopes he won’t for a while, that maybe this Geordie and him will continue to make each other happy for the longest time—so he doesn’t know how These Things work.

 

Ashton remembers the first girl he kissed, how he could see it in her eye that she liked him just as much as he liked her, but she had a reputation to maintain, wanted to keep her friends impressed, date only older guys. They liked each other, though.

 

Ashton remembers the first boy he kissed, a façade of a bad boy to mask one of the shyest boys he’d ever met. He looked at him and knew, felt it in his bones, just how deeply in love he was with Ashton. But the boy had parents who would never accept it, and friends who weren’t ready to know, so eventually Ashton had to leave him, because it was either live a lie or be lonely, and he chose the latter. They liked each other, though.

 

His first girlfriend, he remembers the pain in her eyes when she kissed him goodbye, family moving across the country, both her and Ashton too skeptical about long-distance relationships. They liked each other, though.

 

His first boyfriend, he remembers the kiss on the top of his head, the boy shaking his head no. Chemistry had died down, and it was hard to keep going to bed with someone you saw more as a best friend than as a lover. They liked each other, though.

 

Ashton’s point being: liking people is important. But no relationship can live off that alone, not even if it’s the deepest kind of love. There needs to be more, and sometimes that more is an invisible thing that holds the two people together through all. Sometimes that something is where they are in their lives, whether they’ve come to terms with who they are and what they need in life. Sometimes it’s money, a stable life. Sometimes it’s just chemistry.

 

Still, there’s something. Lots of somethings. A relationship was complex math, and the wrong thing added or subtracted means it just doesn’t work out.

 

“It’s never that simple,” he says instead of telling Michael all this, partly because he doesn’t want to argue, partly just because he doesn’t want to steal Michael from his beautiful illusion on the simplicity of love.

 

There’s a second of silence between them, Michael staring at his feet as a new small wave comes to kiss their feet and then go away once more.

 

“Maybe it’s true that it’s never that simple,” he says, voice small, like a contradicted child who has their heart in the right place—which is him, all over. “But you’ve got to try anyway.”

 

#

 

It’s not long until they’re back to the sand where they left Ashley and Calum. They both have ice creams in their hands, each finishing a cone. They’re listening to a sad song by The 1975, Ashley wearing Calum’s big shirt, her pants in a pile with his sneakers and socks. They both look half-dried by now, but like they’ve been to the sea as well, judging by their skin glowing against the sun and Calum’s damp hair.

 

When Michael and Ashton approach, Ashley pulls her sunglasses up, scans them with her eyes as if trying to decide whether to comment on something she’s the only one allowed to see. Eventually, Calum stands up, smiling brightly, tells them: “Where the fuck were you? We have to go back soon.”

 

But he sounds happy.

 

Ashton half-smiles. “Enjoying your last minutes of freedom, then, I take it,” he comments, reaching for Calum’s cone of ice cream, which he gives unwillingly. Ashton busies himself in eating it while Michael asks about when did they go in and how did they not see each other, and so on.

 

Ashley jokes that she’s a mermaid and this is why she didn’t get her hair wet. Calum argues she just put it up in a tall bun and told him to be careful not to splash water on it by accident, but when she stares, narrowing her eyes and saying through gritted teeth, “ _Mermaid_ ,” Calum exaggeratedly bows down and calls her Sea Majesty.

 

Which is extremely dorky, but gets Ashton laughing anyway.

 

She stands up, offers the towel they were sitting on for Michael to at least try and dry himself a bit. “Your phone rang, by the way,” Ashley turns to Ashton, tone as an after-thought, “the screen said it was the hospital, so I figured it was Anne, but didn’t want to pick it up in case you didn’t tell her you’d be with us this morning.”

 

Ashton runs his hands over his head, pulling his mostly dry curls away, nodding slowly, “I’ll call her back, thanks.”

 

Since Calum and Michael seem to be fighting each other for the towel so they can look more presentable, he finishes Calum’s cone, lets Ashley finish his while she stares at the boys, unimpressed, takes his phone from her bag on the sand, and puts some distance between his friends and himself, walking away and calling back the number from the missed call.

 

It’s one of the receptionists who picks it up. He identifies himself, says he thinks it was Anne who called, but the woman says no, it wasn’t, it was a nurse, and wait a second so she can put them on the line.

 

Ashton stops breathing.

 

The first thought that occurs to him is that something is wrong with Anne, that his Mum must be in serious health trouble if a nurse wants to talk to him about her. The second thought that occurs to him is that the person who he’s being called about is Luke, that he’s had a convulsion or something worse, that his heart stopped beating, or he’s back in another coma, in the last thing he’d heard form his lips was that he should go.

 

What doesn’t occur to him is that none of these thoughts are plausible—that if anything had happened to Anne and Ashton wasn’t reached, they’d reach the kids at school and his phone would have a thousand missed calls. That if anything had happened to Luke, nobody would give a damn about him, and he’d only learn whenever he decided to show up again, or whenever Anne decided to pay him a visit and found out something had been wrong.

 

Still, these seconds or few minutes of wait are excruciating.

 

His teeth is sinking down his bottom lip, turning away to see his friends in the distance, Calum is helping Ashley out of his shirt, and all three of them are laughing as it catches in her bun, her hair falling down as she tries to awkwardly get rid of Calum’s shirt. Michael gathers her tank top from the sand, and Ashley hits the piece of clothing against her thighs a few times to get rid of as much sand as she can. Michael is already fully clothed, and Calum is now putting his shirt back on, even if it’s a little damp from Ashley.

 

And then it’s just his friends there, standing in the sand, trying not to look his way, and nobody’s picked up the phone again.

 

Until they do.

 

“Hello, Ashton? This is Walker.”

 

Ashton looks away from his friends and onto the ocean. “Hi, Walker. You called?”

 

The mean breathes slowly against the phone. “I did. Is this a good time? I just need to talk to you for a little bit. Won’t take long.”

 

Ashton presses his lips together, isn’t sure whether he’s breathing or not.

 

“Sure.”

 

There’s brief silence on the other end, and Ashton can tell this makes Walker uncomfortable, talking to Ashton on the phone, but Ashton cares very little about that. What he cares about is how he feels his heart at the pit of his stomach, and how he feels like his skin is loose against his muscles and bones, all in fear and anticipation, because this isn’t normal. No nurse had ever called him before, and he hates all things he can’t predict the outcome of.

 

He’s just not good with surprises, he supposes.

 

This doesn’t feel like it’ll be a good one.

 

“Right,” Walker says after he seems to recollect his thoughts. “I never meant to be thrown in the middle of this, so if I’m stepping over the line by calling you, I’m sorry,” he half-chuckles, half-snorts. “But… Just ask your mother: we grow attached to patients, you know? We want to do things for them. For some it’s like, just an extra blanket, or a more comfortable pillow we sneak from unused rooms. Some other patients ask for more, and I guess Luke’s one of them,” he breathes out a shaky laugh.

 

Ashton sets his jaw.

 

He recognizes his cue to say something, he just doesn’t want to.

 

“Anyway,” Walker adds once he realizes Ashton won’t say anything. “Luke asked me to find Anne and give her your jacket, but with all the extra shifts she’s pulling and everything she’s doing to try and get the position of head nurse, I can’t even find her. So I thought maybe calling you could be a good idea. My shift ends in another fifteen minutes, so I could leave your jacket with the girls in the reception, would that be okay?”

 

Slowly, very slowly, he feels air in his lungs again.

 

Of course it’d been there before. He just wasn’t feeling it, and now it’s an avalanche of air punching his lungs, like an aggression but on reverse, except it doesn’t make him feel soothed, like the opposite of an aggression would. It’s just the action itself—like someone pulling their angry closed fist away from his chest, but he’s already been hurt.

 

Ashton blinks a couple of times, a quiet snort coming out that he doesn’t think Walker even hears at all.

 

The irony is how even though the whole point of this call was Luke, the first thing he manages to say is: “Mum never even mentioned the position for head nurse opened up. Why wouldn’t she share something like that with us? Lauren would be over the moon. We all would.”

 

Walker sighs on the other hand, no doubt more uncomfortable than before. “I’m sure she has a reason to not have told you. I’m sorry I said anything, I thought you knew—”

 

Ashton cuts him off. “Yeah, she probably had a great reason. That’s the problem, though, we always do, but apparently we fucking suck at basic communication, no matter how hard we try.”

 

But that’s not Walker’s problem or business.

 

He breathes on the phone, seemingly unsure on what to say next.

 

“Thanks for the call, Walker. Just leave my jacket in the reception, yeah. I’ll head over there after my shift at the shop today. Thank you.”

 

#

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS IS 12/13!!! I CAN'T BELIEVE THE NEXT UPDATE WILL BE THE LAST. :O !!!!!!! honestly, i'm ecstatic. just-- thanks a lot for everything. all your support means the world. and hey! let me know your thoughts! ♥


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my god. OH MY GOD HJFLKSGHLSKFHQ IT'S THE LAST CHAPTER I CAN'T BELIEVE IT OH GMDOYODF??? ʘ‿ʘ i know you probably don't want to waste your time in the notes -- I MEAN, if you read all 12 chapters, all you want is to get to the last one, and not read my nonsense in the notes, right? BUT HEAR ME OUT. i just /need/ to thank you guys. like, honestly. seriously. from the bottom of my heart. your comments, be it here on the fic or on my [tumblr](http://daddirwin.tumblr.com/) have been the highlight of my days in the past month. you've made me feel validated and like my art matters. for an amateur writer, support is what keeps us motivated to keep sharing our work, you know? and i can't complain, man. there were days when things were too much, and i'd just open my fic and go through the comments, and the smile would just find a home in my mouth before i even noticed sadness slipping away. what i mean is: thanks a million. a billion. THANKS TIMES INFINITY. ♥ ♥ ♥ hope you enjoyed the fic, and also enjoy the last chapter of course! :)

In the car, when the silence is too much, he tells his friends about the phone call. Everybody listens but nobody dares to give their piece of mind about it. Ashton is mostly glad—can’t quite keep up with his own thoughts, let alone his friends’. There’s a subtle change in the atmosphere, too, but Ashton can’t quite identify it, too busy replaying in his head his conversation with Walker.

 

Ashley drives to the school first, leaves Michael and Calum there, looking half-decent. Their hair has mostly dried by now, but their clothes cling to their skin and they definitely smell of ocean. Ashton has no clue what they’re going to tell their parents, or if they’re saying anything at all. He thinks Michael goes back home by foot but Calum’s parents are still picking him up. He doesn’t ask, though.

 

They have lunch at Ashley’s place. There’s no one home, but he manages to take a shower and have a change of clothes, using the ones he brought early in the morning. When he leaves the bathroom, Ashley’s waiting for him with obscene amounts of pasta and grape juice.

 

They make a silent deal to not mention Luke or Walker’s phone call, and Ashton can only hope it’ll take his mind off them, but it doesn’t. Even with Ashley bent on telling him all sorts of things just to keep herself talking and Ashton listening, still he keeps thinking back of what he’s crossed out with red ink in his head.

 

His shift couldn’t be slower.

 

The afternoon takes ages to pass, every client seemingly unhappy, every minute unbearable. It’s almost too much, staring at the clock on the wall, pretending he doesn’t notice the way Ashley keeps looking at him with worried eyes.

 

Logically speaking, he knows Luke wouldn’t text him. If he can’t even text Ashton to let him know that Luke doesn’t want his jacket or anything his around anymore, then definitely Luke wouldn’t just text to say he misses him—something he’s doubting more and more by the slow passing second. Still well-aware of that, he keeps looking back at his phone, just checking.

 

For what, he’s not sure.

 

He’s definitely not texting Luke, either.

 

Eventually when he finds himself minutes away from the end of his shift and Ashley gestures dismissively, telling him, “Just go,” he chuckles bitterly, remembers two days ago when these words had a very different weight, but still goes ahead and kisses her cheek before grabbing his backpack and leaving.

 

She gives him a long look, not quite used to that much display of affection, but wishes him good luck anyway. He waves goodbye without thanking her, mostly because he doesn’t know how luck would play a role at all.

 

He’s already outside the shop when he realizes he didn’t bring his bike, but he doesn’t want to wait with Ashley for the night shift guy so he can get a ride. Instead, he walks to the closest bus stop, and hops on the first bus that can take him to the hospital. It’s a long ride, and he curses himself, because maybe if he had waited a little bit longer, he’d have been able to catch the next bus, with a different itinerary, that wouldn’t go to as many places before the hospital.

 

Then again, there’s a lot of cursing himself going on.

 

He wouldn’t go back on what he said to Luke, but he thinks maybe he should have done it sooner, confronted him against it, maybe before he knew what it was like to be held by him, kissed by him. And now he feels like he’s the odd one out, the one who took things too seriously and developed feelings too fast—because certainly, if Luke felt at all like he did, he wouldn’t be throwing Ashton’s jacket in strangers’ ways just so he could be done with Ashton already.

 

It feels like that, anyway, and it stings.

 

It’s not dark yet when he’s finally getting off the bus and walking to the hospital main entrance, but the sun is about to set, the sky a mix of red and orange, and it should be beautiful, but only makes his heart ache more. He kind of wishes it could be a cold cloudy day instead, just to match his feelings.

 

Then he rolls his eyes, thinking: how fucking dramatic.

 

He sees the janitor talking to a lady just past the door, but walks fast by them so he’s not spotted. If he was asked, he wouldn’t be able to tell them why. Maybe he’s just too set on his idea of what to do there, and is afraid that if he finds any distractions, he’ll back off entirely.

 

He doesn’t go to the receptionists.

 

Ashton goes straight to the elevator, presses the floor to Luke’s room, and waits. His heart starts echoing in the small cubicle. He presses his lips and stares at the big metal doors, and when they open, he feels his confidence die down a little.

 

It’s not that he doesn’t think what he’s there to do is fair. It is. To himself, at least—he can’t just grab his jacket and take off from Luke’s life forever, can’t even allow himself to fully believe that’s what Luke wants in the first place. It’s just that being here after two days feels like being here after two years. Nothing’s really changed, but he could swear these walls have forgotten about him, these doors he passes have different people inside, and when he stops in front of Luke’s closed door, he feels as if the person inside this specific room has forgotten all about him, too.

 

(He doesn’t honestly believe that. But it’s an irrational fear like Lauren’s fear of heights or Harry’s fear of cockroaches.)

 

Standing in front of Luke’s door, he presses his lips together, and before courage is all lost, he knocks on the door, opening it slowly when he gets a confused, “Yeah?” from inside.

 

Luke’s all alone in the room, thankfully. It’d be awkward explaining to his parents or brothers how come Ashton’s blinking a couple of times with no words coming out of his mouth, and how Luke stares at him as if never in a million years he thought he’d see him again.

 

It was two days, damn it.

 

Luke’s sitting cross-legged on his bed, and Ashton wants to be happy for how at ease he seems with his body, but he also wants to be mad at how Luke’s wearing a black tee with a red flannel and it looks so good, and the sweatpants he’d been wearing the last time Ashton came here too. He hadn’t even realized how cold the room was, AC turned down, but then he feels a shiver run up his spine, and he isn’t sure whether it’s because the room is too cold or because Luke is giving him that look, like he’s gathering his own thoughts as well.

 

Slowly, he says: “Your jacket’s downstairs.”

 

Ashton feels something bitter in his throat, and he closes the door behind him, shaking his head at first, and then turning back to Luke.

 

“You think I care about a fucking jacket?” Luke blinks a couple of times, parts his lips, but since he doesn’t interrupt Ashton, he goes on. “I just—Fuck, Luke, why did you even have to _want_ to give it back?”

 

Luke raises his eyebrows. “As opposed to stealing it?” he tilts his head to the side, a cynical side that Ashton hadn’t known showing.

 

It sort of makes him angrier.

 

“As opposed to sending me a text saying anything, or calling me, or really, whatever,” he shrugs, then snorts, paces around the room as if it’ll help him keep the words coming out. “It was cruel to ask Walker to call me and you know it,” he stops suddenly, close enough to Luke’s bed that Luke’s stillness bothers him to no end. “I was at the beach with my friends!” he adds, as an after-thought, as if that changes everything.

 

In a way, he guesses it does, because Luke takes a deep breath, staring at him, pressing his lips together, chewing on his bottom lip, and Ashton thinks that look in his eye means that there’s a lot going on in his head, but he selfishly keeps it all to himself.

 

“Say something,” Ashton asks, his voice much tamer, much softer, shoulders drawn down and a frown in his face.

 

Luke looks away. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

 

He chuckles, shrugs. “Well, I don’t know, say that when you did that you didn’t mean for me to never come here again. Or say that that’s exactly what you meant, but don’t leave me guessing. Quite frankly, that’s mean.” He stops himself, feels something crawl back onto his shoulders, adds with a weaker tone: “I didn’t want to hurt you that bad.”

 

At first, he doesn’t really look at Luke. He’s staring down at the floor and trying to think of ways to not expose himself further, because it feels like he’s done a whole lot of that already, and he doesn’t know to what ends. It sort of feels like this is useless; he’s talking and talking and yet he’s hearing nothing in return. He’s the one who purposefully walked in the hospital room. He’s the one who didn’t get much of a response.

 

Then, Luke breathes out a shaky, “Fuck,” that comes with a bitter laugh almost immediately. Ashton looks up, feeling his throat dry, watches Luke rub his eyes and throw his head back with a deep breath. “Of course you didn’t hurt me,” he says, finally, “you were right, and that’s what stung. That’s what made me mad, I guess, how right you were, that I was a fucking hypocrite telling you to open up when I obviously wasn’t dealing with my own shit,” he breathes out again, looks back at Ashton. “You’re right. Asking Walker to find a way to give your jacket back was cruel. But that’s kind of the point, isn’t it?”

 

Ashton shifts his weight to the other foot, holds his breath.

 

“Is it?” he repeats, blinking slowly.

 

Luke lowers his head, looks ashamed in spite of himself as he starts fidgeting with the last button of his flannel. “It’d been two days and I hadn’t heard from you, and—and I guess I wanted to hurt you because I thought you’d already left me.”

 

He breathes out, too, and then walks to Luke’s bed, taking tentative steps as if testing the waters. He settles for sitting relatively close to him, not touching him but within reaching distance. Ashton looks at him, tries to see past the eyes that won’t meet his, past the nervousness of his movements.

 

So Luke has admitted he was right. Suddenly being right matters little.

 

Maybe it should make a bigger difference, whether he was right, or whether Luke wanted him out for real for saying it or not, but now that he’s sitting here in front of Luke, he isn’t really sure what to do next. Should he be mad that Luke purposefully wanted to hurt him? Should he consider it flattering that he even cared at all? Should he pressure him to know why Ashton saying it was so hurtful for him, even though he apparently understood Ashton only wanted to see him better, or would that put them at odds with each other again? Ashton’s just clueless. He hates being clueless. Makes him feel powerless.

 

“I don’t think I’m used to anyone aside from my family caring, if I’m honest,” Luke says, voice quieter than before, maybe for Ashton being closer, or maybe just because of the nature of what he’s saying. “I was thinking about it before—how scared I was, and how I had no idea what to do about it.”

 

Ashton tries to touch the heel of Luke’s foot, the one not buried in his messy way of crossing legs, but when Luke looks up at him, he loses the gut, his hovering hand going back to his lap in defeat. He still offers: “Scared because of the infection?”

 

A little shyly and completely out of place, Luke smiles.

 

“Scared because of you, Ash,” he sighs softly, his smile breaking a little. Ashton stares, blinking slowly. Luke licks his lips, staring down again. “Like how you said you were at the beach with your friends—that’s _exactly_ what I mean. You’re off living wonderful things that I can’t keep up with, and I mean: you should be. But I don’t want you to think that, like—I’m not like you. I’m selfish. I want you I want you I want you, even if the most exciting thing I can offer you is a trip to the hospital rooftops.” Ashton definitely touches the heel of Luke’s foot this time, leaning forward, a frown on his face, but Luke shakes his head no. “Just hear me out,” he says, so Ashton backs off, hand still there, because he doesn’t want to not touch him again. “I don’t want to lose you, and I’m constantly scared you’ll just figure out the obvious: that I can’t offer you any more than this, and you definitely deserve better.”

 

It’s a lot to take in, but the best he can is chuckle weakly, raising his eyebrows high, and asking: “You were afraid you’d lose me, so you gave me mixed signals that mostly meant you wanted me out for good?”

 

Luke rolls his eyes, murmurs a half-hearted: “Shut up.”

 

Ashton feels his shoulders relax with the way Luke’s cheeks burn red, and how Luke doesn’t complain when he gets just a bit closer, his hand sort of spreading Luke’s legs so he can come closer still. “I’m just saying, talk about reverse psychology,” he raises his eyebrows, and Luke shakes his head, trying to hide an embarrassed smirk.

 

Smiling quietly, he pulls Luke’s leg until it’s sort of over his lap, and he sort of just fits in between Luke’s long legs, one hand still on one of his ankles, the other touching his waist with patient hazel eyes he didn’t know to be patient until now.

 

Luke holds his breath, looks at him. “I’m sorry about the jacket.”

 

Ashton nods, looking down, fighting the urge to just incline to the side and lie on top of Luke, kiss his mouth, say everything’s fine now. “I’m sorry I pushed you to talk about something you weren’t ready to talk about.”

 

With a small sigh, Luke’s body falls back with a thud. He blinks, staring, until Luke spreads his arms with a semi-pout that makes him chuckle. It’s what Ashton had been dreaming of in the past few seconds, though, so he effortlessly falls with Luke, landing softly on his chest, resting his weight on his hands on each side to not crush him, even if he figures Luke probably weighs about the same as him, if not more.

 

Luke wraps his arms around Ashton, kisses the top of his head, and Ashton’s glasses sort of hurt a bit against his nose, but he isn’t ready to move yet.

 

“I’m sorry I’m so bad at keeping people around,” Luke adds, but before Ashton can even think of enough arguments to convince him that their friendship or something else was one of the best things to have ever happened to Ashton, Luke’s already repeating: “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

 

Ashton closes his eyes, relaxes against him, hands going to the sides of Luke’s body, too. Luke seems to take it as a cue to remove Ashton’s glasses from his face, set them to the bedside table carefully, one hand on Ashton’s back the whole time, the other coming back to him after putting the glasses aside. He runs his hand through Ashton’s curls for a couple of seconds, or maybe minutes. Ashton isn’t keeping track, and the silence feels almost healing.

 

It’s just—he didn’t want to put two and two together. All he knew was his fear that this was over, and now that it isn’t, he’d gladly stop thinking about what drove them there altogether.

 

But Luke has different thoughts, he knows. Maybe if it was his problems, he wouldn’t be able to just shrug them off in the first or second or third opportunity just to save a relationship, either. Luke just needs some time, some courage, and he seems to slowly build it in the silence and comfort of Ashton close to him as they share a hospital bed like it’s their own.

 

Eventually, Luke tells him:

 

“I never wanted to talk to the police about it, because it would mean reliving what happened. It was more humiliating than scary—being there on my own, and leaving in an ambulance, unconscious and with a bullet in my head,” he makes a short pause like he’s catching his breath, and Ashton wishes he could be looking him in the eye, but somehow this is better for Luke, so he keeps brushing Ashton’s curls with his fingers, keeps him close at all costs. Ashton lets him. “It’s not like I was afraid of dying. My days were so dull. I was going to graduate with a bunch of people who didn’t know my name, and then I’d get in a good college, and maybe start meeting people there. Maybe start my life there. That was my escape route: college. But college was months and months away, and I didn’t know for sure that I wouldn’t repeat the same mistakes and just get a brand new eventless life with brand new people who didn’t know my name, either.”

 

When Luke pauses, the room is entirely silent.

 

It’s as if not even their heartbeats would dare interrupt him.

 

“I wasn’t afraid of dying because I didn’t have anything worth living for,” he chuckles, shrugs, but still Ashton doesn’t move. “But the moment I saw that gun, I knew it didn’t matter what I said or gestured to the guard. It wasn’t important that I didn’t have a gun on me, either, that I posed no danger. In a matter of seconds, I had to come to terms with the fact that I was going to die, and I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to live, but dying was too much,” he chuckles again, this time not even bitter, just recognizing the irony in that. “Does that make sense?”

 

Ashton touches his chest, staring at his own hand on Luke. “Yes.”

 

“Good,” he says, as if he’s truly relieved that Ashton understands. “Then I don’t know. He fired the shot and I died. I truly died, because after that, there’s nothing. No flashbacks, no lights, no heaven or hell. There’s only a disturbing amount of nothingness, and then the excruciating pain on my head and my chest, waking up from a coma with your eyes looking at me, and your hand on mine.”

 

Though he feels it, how Luke squeezes him close, kisses the tip of his head, seems to appreciate him entirely too much, like his being there was an act of romance and not just his guilt for not having done anything to stop the shooting, he goes and ruins the break they could have had, swallowing dryly and telling Luke: “I was just a couple of feet away. Michael saw the whole thing, told me not to look.”

 

Luke’s quiet for a while.

 

What Ashton thinks is that he’s definitely blown it for good. Got Luke to open up and talk about that night and whatever happened next, right after Luke admitted to his insecurities. Then he goes and tells him that he could have done something to stop it, that he was right there, that he could have and he didn’t. Luke’s silence makes him unquiet, heartbeat racing, hands this close to shaking.

 

Then Luke slowly clears his throat, hesitance punctuating his voice when he tries:

 

“Do you think Michael would be willing to speak to the police too about the guard who shot?”

 

Ashton blinks a couple of times, raises his head from Luke’s chest, because this is big, and it isn’t just big for him. It’s big for all the people who love Luke, and he doesn’t know about Michael, but he thinks that, yeah, sure, why not, he’d probably get some closure from that, too.

 

“Does that mean that you are?” he asks, then adds, as if it isn’t obvious: “To testify against the man, I mean. Are you?”

 

Frowning a little bit like he’s still on the fence, Luke eventually ends up nodding, firmness coming within the seconds. “It’s about time, I guess.”

 

There’s nothing anyone could have told him to properly prepare him for that or for the look of expectance and anticipation in Luke’s eyes—it reminds him vaguely of what someone must look like when they’re about to jump off a precipice, but with someone holding their hand—so what he does is to just lean in, and kiss his mouth.

 

#

 

Ashton doesn’t spend the night, but he very nearly does.

 

They lie in bed until they’re tired, and then Ashton starts making silly compliments to Luke’s choice of clothes, until Luke’s cheeks are burning red and he’s hiding his face in the curve of Ashton’s neck. For a while, it feels like bliss.

 

Then Liz calls, and Ashton gives Luke some room saying he’ll go get himself some coffee. He doesn’t want to pressure Luke into telling her about him finally going to the police, or pressure him into anything ever.

 

Which is why he finds himself struggling with the coffee machine down the hall, frowning and punching buttons until finally a cup starts being filled with mocacchino.

 

“Are things okay again?” he hears behind him.

 

For a second, he thinks it may be Ben or Jack, but when he looks, it’s the janitor. Ashton smiles, looking away from the coffee machine—the man looks somehow much older than last time they’ve talked. It may be the light or just how different Ashton feels. Still, he nods quietly, a reticent something to his face that the janitor must have caught, because he doesn’t rush it either.

 

The machine beeps that the coffee is ready to be drunk, and Ashton removes the plastic cup from the machine, blinking a couple of times. “You know what, I don’t know whether they’ll be okay for long. Luke’s got an infection again. But things are okay between us, so I guess that counts for something.”

 

It’s sort of funny, he supposes, how nonchalant he sounds when he says it, but the janitor seems to understand. He nods back, frowning slightly, holding his mop and staring ahead, away from Ashton. “People get infections in hospitals all the time. Doesn’t matter if they live or die, what matters is what you make of it now.”

 

Ashton takes a sip of his coffee. “Of course I want him to live.”

 

The janitor gives him a funny smile, “Of course he will.”

 

They’re quiet for a moment there, Ashton sipping on his coffee and the janitor narrowing his eyes and looking at the floor, as if he’s either remembering something important or just noticing a spot he missed with the mopping earlier. Eventually, the man states, matter-of-factly: “You’re a good kid.” Ashton raises his eyebrows, seeks his eyes, but the janitor still doesn’t look back at him. “You know that, don’t you?”

 

Ashton parts his lips, but he’s too dumbstruck by the randomness of it all to properly react, so he ends up just nodding slowly.

 

He’s known this man for so long, and for so long he’s dreamed of him filling the place left vacant by his father. All he wanted was for Anne to suddenly decide that she loved the janitor, and for the janitor to love her back, and then he’d  move in and help Harry with homework and pick Lauren up at pool parties, and Ashton would sit with him on the couch and talk about being scared of growing up. None of that ever happened, but Ashton still somehow likes to think he kept him around.

 

Or they kept each other around, whatever the case.

 

He certainly feels as if he doesn’t do much to repay for the countless times in which the janitor listened to whatever was troubling him at the time, from high school girlfriend-slash-boyfriend to a test he’d got an F in. In return, Ashton never actually learned his name, or where he lived, or how much of a family he had, or what his favorite color was.

 

Anne says things like that don’t matter. That you don’t give the same amount you get to anyone. That people like you for the exact amount you give or let them give to you. But he still feels as if the imbalance is unfair.

 

Because the janitor waits for a proper response, he smiles. “I guess I’m alright.”

 

The man smiles. “You deserve to be happy. Are you?”

 

It’s definitely scary, how he doesn’t think much at all when he says: “Yes.”

 

#

 

“I told her,” is the first thing Luke says when Ashton walks in the room.

 

He’s still holding what’s left of his coffee, so it takes him a moment of sipping and closing the door behind him before he registers the look of expectation in Luke’s eyes, the shadow of a smile there.

 

“And?” he tries, raising an eyebrow.

 

Luke sits as straight as he can on the bed, spreads his arms to send a very clear message, and as Ashton smiles a little and walks towards him, Luke says: “She’s so happy. Everyone’s so happy.”

 

Ashton finishes his coffee on the way to the bed, sits in front of him and hugs him close. Kisses his shoulderjust because, hands around his waist and pulling him closer still. He can only imagine how this must be like, but he feels at peace.

 

He hopes Luke feels as at peace as he does.

 

#

 

For the next hour or so, they talk about music. Luke says he never really stopped listening to the mix Ashton made him, and Luke promises him, after chewing on his lip for an outrageous amount of time:

 

“Once I get out of here, I’m making you a mix, too.”

 

#

 

He wakes up Wednesday morning with someone knocking on his door. It’s Lauren, and he’s lost the time to help downstairs. He knows because the sun isn’t as shy as it usually is by the time he’s supposed to get up, and also because his phone tells him that with the time.

 

His phone also has an unread notification, a text from Luke. It reads: I’M SO GLAD WE’RE OKAY.

 

Ashton feels his heart beat faster even though it’s silly, really—he’s slept so well last night, he’d go as far as saying he had dreams. Nice dreams of floating around on clouds, taking a peek at the world beneath but also above, Luke with his chin resting on Ashton’s shoulder the whole time.

 

Lauren knocks on the door again, this time her voice sounding more urgent when she says: “Just tell me if you’re still alive.”

 

“Give me a sec!” he yells, nearly falling off the bed as he reaches for the sweatpants he thought was within reaching distance but wasn’t.

 

On his underwear, he pulls himself up as he desperately fights off sleepiness and struggles to put on his sweatpants in a split second, but when he gets to the door of his room, he only sees Lauren down the corridor, going back downstairs again, her ponytail going from one side to the other.

 

“Wait,” he tries, running after her anyway.

 

Ashton’s still shirtless and barefoot, hasn’t brushed his teeth or washed his face or anything. Honestly, he’s just following Lauren downstairs so he can properly apologize to Harry and Anne as well for sleeping over and not being up in time to help them with breakfast and getting things ready for school. He’s not ready for anything other than that, and definitely doesn’t understand a thing when he gets downstairs and Harry is still in his pajamas and pouring syrup on his pancakes in an exaggerated fashion, and Anne’s staring at him with bright eyes.

 

Lauren stops, looks behind her at her older brother. She’s in a green dress with a tiny bow on the waist level, and though she looks pretty, the lack of backpack also tells Ashton that she isn’t about to go to school, either.

 

Anne isn’t in the sweatpants and sweatshirt she usually is before going to the hospital, where she won’t have much time to change into scrubs, either. She’s wearing jeans and a nice pink button-down shirt, and Ashton doesn’t remember ever seeing her in the earrings she’s in right now.

 

He blinks a couple of times, looking at her.

 

“What’s happening?” he asks, but there’s a smile close to take shape in his mouth.

 

Anne walks to him, can’t seem to help the smile on her lips. When she’s close enough, she raises her eyebrows, says: “Burkhart gave me the day off.”

 

Dr Burkhart is the chief of medicine in the hospital. She’s a middle-aged woman with serious eyes and pouty lips, eyebrows perpetually raised as if she’s considering whether you’re worthy of her time. Ashton doesn’t particularly like the woman, mostly because all his memories of her are from when he was too little and she was too annoyed at his being in the hospital—but valued Anne and her work too much to say anything, just poked at the janitor disrespectfully and once or twice ordered the janitor to just _make_ Ashton stop running in the halls.

 

Which is why he stops and stares, not really sure what to make of that. Days off are something to be scared of, because they’re this close to suspensions or worse, down-sizing. When Lauren walks by him and slaps his arm, trying to slap him out of his worried face no doubt, he follows her with his gaze, until she sits next to Harry, wrinkling her nose at the mess of syrup he’s made of his pancakes. He’s happily eating them, though.

 

“But,” Ashton tries, unsure on talking about a possible crisis in front of his siblings. Trying to keep it down, he asks: “Burkhart just gave you a day off?”

 

Anne nods.

 

And Ashton doesn’t ask any other questions.

 

Half hour later he’s in Anne’s car, but she’s the one driving, and with Lauren picking the music riding shotgun, Ashton and Harry are in the backseats, bumping shoulders and exhausting all knock knock jokes there are in the world. Ashton doesn’t mind not knowing where they’re headed, because he’s got a faint idea, and is too afraid he’s wrong to ask.

 

Cyndi Lauper’s _Girls Just Wanna Have Fun_ starts playing in Lauren’s phone wired to the car, and Anne laughs out loud, eyes still on the road but smile enough to take Harry and Ashton’s attention away from their silly game. Anne murmurs something about not believing Lauren has that song in her phone, and when Lauren unapologetically shrugs, Anne starts singing under her breath.

 

Thirty seconds in the song, they’re both singing, dancing on their seats, Lauren throwing her head back and making a microphone out of her phone. Ashton smiles, Harry smiles, but they’re not invited for that—it’s one of those beautiful things you have to be a girl to fully live, not the singing out loud, but the singing out loud of an anthem made just for them.

 

So they’re quiet in the backseat, looking at the women they love the most in their lives, and when Harry pokes him in the rib and comments, in a quiet tone: “I don’t remember the last time we did this,” well, Ashton isn’t entirely surprised that Harry’s mind’s gone places.

 

Ashton doesn’t reply because he doesn’t know, either. He puts his arm around Harry’s shoulder and brings him closer, and this time Harry doesn’t protest. They share their own boyish silence contrasting with the party going on in the front seats. Ashton looks out the window, and realization starts settling.

 

He smiles to himself, but still doesn’t say anything.

 

Ashton never knew his grandparents, but he knows his grandmother is still alive somewhere around Adelaide, living in a small house where she can bark orders at her oldest son and pretend Ashton’s mother doesn’t exist. He grew up in Sydney having his mother and siblings for family, and the eventual hospital friend helping out in the process when Anne got too caught up in her work.

 

There were times, though, when he was so young he can’t even remember whether Harry was alive, that they’d go to a tiny beach house where a woman called Olivia lived. She was around Ashton’s mother’s age, a redhead woman as tall as his mother, who never failed to receive them with freshly baked cookies, always wore pearl earrings, and sat with his mother outside while he and Lauren played on the beach.

 

The details become more vivid once they get closer.

 

They haven’t even been to the beach together in so many years that when Anne parks the car, he holds his breath in excitement. Lauren gives him a look over her shoulder, and Harry just frowns, confused, so if he was alive by then, he was too young to cement any real memories. He doesn’t know a thing about Olivia, her cookies, or how close her house is to the beach, how far away from the city and all its trouble.

 

When Anne told him to get dressed, she just said to put on whatever clothes made him feel good. That explains why Harry’s wearing his favorite Captain America T-shirt and baggy shorts, Lauren a green dress, and he’s on a ragged Misfits T-shirt and skinny jeans, but he suddenly wishes he knew he was going to the beach, so he could have come in anything other than jeans.

 

But his mood is far from being spoiled. There’s excitement in the air, like he’s suddenly ten again. He bites his lip and waits for Anne to leave the car so he leaves, too.

 

“Why are we here now?” is the first thing he says when Anne locks the car, and the three siblings stand behind Anne on the pavement, waiting for instructions. He hopes he doesn’t sound _too_ curious, because he isn’t. It’s a question because he feels like he needs to make one, but he’s just genuinely glad to be here, wishes he hadn’t forgotten about this place for so many years, wishes Anne hadn’t, either.

 

Anne gives him a brief look. “I called Olivia last night. I think it’s about time I have friends again, don’t you think?”

 

Ashton walks to her, bumps his shoulder with hers, holding back a grin. “What’s with the change of heart?”

 

She shrugs. “Got inspired by my kids, I guess,” she half-says and half-whispers, and Ashton can’t help grinning this time, so much that he feels the dimples on his face, feels as if they’ll be there forever.

 

Anne starts towards the house, a confused-looking Harry and an overly excited Lauren behind her, and Ashton stands back, rests his hips against the car, and _click_ , takes a picture.

 

Following them, he texts it to Luke.

 

WISH YOU WERE HERE is the caption.

 

Luke’s response is quick, makes him stop midway. WHERE’S HERE?

 

He must be typing, which is good. Part of him wants to call him and congratulate him and tell him he misses him and that he’s sure the antibiotics are working and soon they’ll let him go. But instead he bites his lip, replies: NOT SURE YET. I’LL KEEP YOU POSTED, to which Luke answers with a smiley face.

 

“You coming or what?” that’s Lauren.

 

He puts the phone in his back pocket, and walks to the house, too. They’re all already waiting, and by the time he gets there, Olivia’s answering the door, with the same pearl earrings, the same kind bright smile, and the same scent of cookies sending his stomach growling.

 

She looks at Anne first, really looks at her, and Ashton starts noticing things that when he was Harry’s age he didn’t—like how Olivia tilts her head to the side just a little bit when she looks at Anne, like she’s just too beautiful to be taken with one brief look, and how when they hug, Olivia closes her eyes. She’s not a redhead anymore, either. When he was young, he used to think that was her natural hair color, or maybe just didn’t think it through. Now she wears her hair in long locs.

 

As if noticing the things he was noticing, the next person Olivia looks is Ashton. She smirks at him, says, “Now haven’t you grown up a whole lot? I hate how much of a man you look now. Makes me feel old.”

 

Ashton laughs, and as if it hadn’t been around ten years, he just walks to her and hugs her, and it should feel weird, because it’s been too long and now he isn’t only up to her waist anymore. Now he’s taller and his shoulders are broader, but still he breathes in the cookie scent from inside the house, smiles and smiles and smiles, and when he pulls back, Olivia keeps one of her hands on Ashton’s shoulder, like she’s still taking in how much older he is, too.

 

But she doesn’t ask any questions immediately. She hugs Lauren,who’s jumping up and down like she’s seeing long-lost family, completely losing her posture of Cool Teenager, and after that, Olivia formally shakes Harry’s hand, and winks at him when he shies away from anything more intimate, like a proper hug.

 

She invites them in, shows the three siblings the back doors to the beach. Anne settles in, takes off her purse and sighs with a smile, walking to a bookshelf and studying Olivia’s vinyl collection. Harry takes timid steps towards the beach, but when Lauren passes him running, he ends up following her, yelling for her to wait for him (and she doesn’t, but that’s part of the fun). Ashton ends up with Olivia by her side.

 

He smiles at her, feeling a bit nostalgic.

 

“Anne tells me you’ve found yourself someone,” she says quietly, raising her eyebrows suggestively, and he laughs, can’t help but laugh at that, at how easy this is after so long. She chuckles. “Well, is he good for you?”

 

Ashton licks his lips, looks away at his little sister and little brother, and it’s one of these moments. It’s everything happening at the same time, with Anne deciding for a freaking Frank Sinatra vinyl from all things, _All The Way_ playing in the room. Olivia looks over her shoulder and smiles at Anne, and when Anne looks at his mother, too, she looks like she’s having such a great time just by herself, singing quietly, arms spread invitingly, and for a second, he thinks it’s for him, before he realizes Olivia’s practically giggling.

 

She apologizes and leaves Ashton by the back door to the beach, goes to Anne, dances with her to Frank Sinatra, and Ashton shakes his head, feeling suddenly like an intruder, so he leaves the house and sits on the steps that approach the beach, gets rid of his shoes and rolls his pants up as much as they’ll let him—not even half the way up to his knees—and with his feet buried in sand, he stares at the sea, at Harry and Lauren running from each other up to the point where Lauren purposefully and in a mean strike splashes water on Harry, which is when he decides to get revenge and ruin her dress in water, too.

 

Is Luke good for him? What an odd question.

 

Yesterday, when the janitor had asked, he’d answered without hesitation that he was happy. Now thinking about it, he isn’t happy just because. He’s still living in the same house with the same people, still same going-nowhere job and minimum wage paycheck. _That’s Life_ starts playing behind him and he hears Anne giggle out loud, and he smiles to himself, but doesn’t look back.

 

The only thing that changed in his life was Luke, and with Luke coming into his life, he changed, too.

 

He’s been thinking about college again. Things are going to turn around.

 

He snaps another picture, this one with Lauren and Harry in the far distance, but mostly of the sun and the sand and the sea. Before Luke can reply, he calls him.

 

“Got it?” he asks.

 

Luke laughs on the other end. “Barely just opened it, but yeah. That’s beautiful. Thanks for sharing,” he pauses, chuckles a little, “I’d show you what wonderful things I’m living here, too, but my physiotherapist says he’s not down for selfies.”

 

Ashton smiles.

 

He’s quiet for a moment, listening to Frank Sinatra talking about picking himself up and getting back in the race. He breathes in, thinks about the past months, thinks about Luke Luke Luke.

 

Ashton thinks of telling Luke that he wants to introduce him to Olivia and bring him there, but instead he says, “There are so many people I want you to meet,” and before Luke can answer to that, too, he adds: “I want to take you to everywhere beautiful and everywhere ugly, too, so you can make all of them beautiful.”

 

He knows Luke’s blushing. There’s something about the abrupt pause but the sound of smile in his voice that tells him that, makes Ashton smile even wider. “I—what’s that for?”

 

“Thanking you, I guess,” Ashton says, toes digging in the sand timidly, eyes going back to the ocean and the shore, Lauren sitting quietly, Harry venturing until the waves kiss his ankles. “For being good for me. Being good to me, too. I guess you were the sick one, but I was the one who needed saving.”

 

Luke’s pause is longer this time, and when he speaks, he wishes with all his heart that he could have been there with him: “Ash, I just. No. You—you’re everything, you know that?” and Ashton chuckles and then laughs, because it’s absurd, but it still makes him happy, and because _The Way You Look Tonight_ has started playing, and Frank Sinatra has that odd effect on people, even on twenty year olds, of turning everything into romantic themes, every words into the perfect ones, every pause the most meaningful.

 

“Can I sleep over tonight?” he asks, because it feels right.

 

And Luke gives him a small laugh, and says, “Please.”

 

#

 

Over lunch, right after Olivia passes around the most delicious grape juice Ashton’s ever had, Anne tells them the real reason why Burkhart gave her the day off: she’s been promoted to head nurse. The chief in medicine decided she’d worked hard enough to earn a day off with her family, and so she took the chance. Starting tomorrow, though, she’s the head nurse. More responsibilities, better paycheck. More respect from her colleagues, too.

 

They pretend grape juice is champagne, and make a toast. Harry asks for a bit of attention, says he loves Anne and has never been prouder of her. They all join in. It’s nice. Ashton feels like taking a picture of that, too, but decides against it, will just tell Luke later.

 

He pretends he doesn’t see it when Anne holds Olivia’s hand under the table, just raises his eyebrows and smiles, looking away.

 

#

 

Though Lauren and Harry are skipping school today, he still has to work. They’re staying the day at Olivia’s, but Anne agrees to take him to work. The second they’re alone in the car, Ashton looks at her, and says:

 

“I’m thinking of going back to college.”

 

She doesn’t ask him why or ask about his savings and whether he’ll have the money. She doesn’t frown and treat it as if it’s the least thing she thought she’d heard from him, which he assumes wouldn’t be very far from the truth. She just nods slowly, a smile on her lips, and tells him, “Whenever you’re ready, Ashton. If it’s next term, I’ll be happy for you. If it’s the next after that, I’ll be happy, too.”

 

Because he’s happy and feeling silly, he raises his eyebrows. “That rhymes.”

 

She rolls her eyes, but laughs.

 

It’s a beautiful laugh.

 

#

 

Ashton tells Ashley about the morning they spent at Olivia’s, and he appreciates how Ashley doesn’t ask any further questions about who exactly Olivia is, but instead seems to just get it.

 

In between customers, they talk about it, about his morning, and about how happy she is, too. She says: “Well, the boys just sneaked out, I guess. I woke up with asshole little rocks being thrown at my window by asshole little losers, like we’re in some shitty ‘80s movie or something,” she rolls her eyes, pulling some of her pink hair behind her ear.

 

Ashley says this while she’s checking out _Sixteen Candles_ to a couple seemingly on their forties, so Ashton has to try hard not to laugh. They’d be probably appalled by her language anyway, but her choice of words is especially unfortunate, and after Ashley tells them they should give the DVD back by Saturday, the man scowls and the woman shakes her head, taking it from the Ashley’s hand as if she’s not worthy of touching the DVD case.

 

Once alone again, Ashton raises his eyebrows on his side of the counter. “Boys or boy?”

 

She makes a face, looks away. “What do you mean?”

 

He gives her a small smile. “I just mean: did both Michael and Calum sneak out to see you in the middle of the night, or was that just Calum?”

 

 

Ashley clears her throat. “Hey, do you think maybe we should do something when Luke leaves the hospital? Like a bit of a surprise party or whatever? Because since you two are probably going to be joined at the hip now, he’s going to hang out with us, too.”

 

Ashton stares at her, a lazy smile creeping to his lips.

 

“You thought that was gonna work,” he says, matter-of-factly.

 

At first she stares back, then she shrugs, fidgets with the pen in the counter between them. “Was worth the try,” she makes a face. Ashton doesn’t say anything, just shrugs too, stays quiet in front of her, but the door bell doesn’t ring and no new customer comes in, so she ends up sighing and says: “I told him not to tell you guys. What a dick.”

 

“He didn’t. I’m pretty sure Michael has no clue. It’s just that at the beach yesterday—” he breathes in, looks at her. She gives him a confused look, he laughs. “It was hard to miss.”

 

They’re quiet for a moment, because Ashton always knew even before either of them did, but Ashley always had shitty boyfriends who didn’t like her enough, and maybe that was because she didn’t think she deserved to be properly loved, or maybe just because it wasn’t the right time yet. As for Calum, Ashton’s pretty sure the guy’s been head over heels since they were small children and Ashley still looked down on them.

 

He wonders if they’re all marked pieces with no choice but to collide and come together at points they don’t really determine. He wonders if there was any other way he could have met Luke, and if there were, why is it that in the eye of the hurricane they met and things still seemed to work out.

 

A bit abruptly, Ashley says: “I don’t think Mali would like it—she’s too protective of Calum, and I actually care about what she has to say.”

 

He shrugs, says nothing.

 

“Plus their parents hate me anyway, so it’s not like this is going anywhere.”

 

Ashton raises his eyebrows.

 

“And how dumb is it to make out with one of your best friends? Especially when in a few months he’s leaving town for college, to meet girls with brighter futures? It’s definitely my dumbest move yet.”

 

Again, silence falls over them, and Ashton isn’t thinking of Luke this time. He’s thinking of Calum and he’s thinking of Ashley, and how dumb it is that they didn’t get together before. He thinks Mali will be happy for them, truly, and maybe with her as an ally Calum’s parents will eventually warm up to the idea. Ashton doesn’t think Calum going to college will make any difference, if Ashley decides she still doesn’t want to go, not even to community college twenty minutes away from the video rental shop. He’s been in _something_ with her for so many years now, either in love or in infatuation or in lust or in admiration or in a mix of all the above, that meeting new people would hardly matter.

 

But he doesn’t say any of that, because she knows.

 

What he says instead is: “What did he want last night, throwing rocks at your window?”

 

She smiles, looking down. “You’re just going to end up laughing,” she says, even though she knows Ashton won’t, but tells him anyway. “He wrote me a song. Wanted to sing it to me or whatever. Brought his guitar and everything, though I have no idea how he sneaked that out of his bedroom too.”

 

Instead of doing what the janitor did and asking her directly if she’s happy, or asking her what Olivia had asked earlier today, if he’s being good to her, he asks: “Well, but did you like the song?”

 

And Ashley gives him an atypically coy smile, and instead of saying yes, she replies with: “It was decent.”

 

#

 

Luke had texted Ashton earlier, saying that maybe his brothers would still be at the hospital when Ashton got there, and there was a certain tone of warning to Luke’s words, but Ashton was actually looking forward to seeing Ben and Jack. Ben because he’d always been so nice, and Jack because he wanted to prove he was going to stick around.

 

Anne had no problems with him sleeping at the hospital, only said it was an inconvenient day, since she wasn’t working and all, said he couldn’t go by car because she’d need it in the morning to take the kids to school and go to work herself, but he was fine with that.

 

Before he left, Lauren gave him a knowing smile—even though, as far as he could tell, she knew nothing—and Harry just absentmindedly gave him a wave, too tired from the day playing at the beach at Olivia’s.

 

This time when he’s on the bus, he doesn’t feel like everything is falling apart around him and in his head. He just listens to music on his phone, the very same playlist he burned in a CD for Luke, and smiles at the passing cars and the passing buildings, and thinks of the hospital as a less-grey one, like a sacred place of sorts.

 

It feels nice.

 

The _niceness_ doesn’t subside, but it gets mixed up with other feelings, at least as he walks the paved way to the hospital after getting off the bus. He registers the small things: the agitation on his chest, the way he keeps pressing his lips together and breathing in and out heavily, as if the next minutes will define his whole life. Like the next hours will be the moments he’ll never forget in years to come.

 

And maybe they are. Maybe he won’t forget his first night with Luke, and it’ll be the first to many many many more, but there’s also that _dumb_ feeling, the thing that makes him feel like he’s got no experience on this liking-slash-love-but-he-won’t-say-it thing. Because right now, pressing the elevator button for Luke’s floor as it’s for his apartment, he feels as if it’s sudden, how overwhelmed he is by whether Luke will like his white Jimi Hendrix shirt that looks as if it was washed with scissors, or his unremarkable black skinnies and his pair of black Converses, too. He’s overwhelmed by whether Luke will notice his cologne or that his hair is still wet from the shower he took in the half hour he stayed home after work, worrying himself sick that Luke will smile when he sees him.

 

It feels sudden, like a hurricane that came unannounced, destroying everything in its path, but it’s quite the opposite: it’s a soft wind that came slow, somehow made its roots in Ashton’s heart and hopefully Luke’s, too, and instead of bringing toxicity and destruction, is putting things back together, contaminating everyone with its air of revolution and reinvention.

 

Ashton feels as if he’s reinvented himself, day after day, sometimes painfully aware and struggling with it, sometimes naturally. He wants to tell Luke this. He wants to tell Luke that though it may not have been exclusively Luke’s doing and he surely did his job of setting things in motion, Luke’s influence was crucial, his hand to hold was everything that kept Ashton motivated for whatever came next, and that seeing his face was the highlight of his day, every day. That Luke was the highlight of his whole year.

 

He wants to tell Luke that part of him is a hopeless romantic who wants to cover him in kisses and lie in (a hospital) bed with him for hours just holding him, then take him to places and walk side-by-side holding hands, kiss his shoulder when he’s distracted and (gasp!) bring him flowers. The other part of him wants to cover his own mouth before any of that comes out, then keep it shut before he ruins anything.

 

He bites his lip, stares at Luke’s closed door, wonders if Ben and Jack are still there, and then knocks. He’s not used to knocking and waiting, not in front of Luke’s door.

 

Eventually someone comes and opens the door. It isn’t Ben or Jack, but Dr Jing, and it’s been so long since he’s last seen the physician that it takes him a moment to recognize her. He half-smiles, a little lost, but the woman gives him a huge smile, so he smiles back.

 

Jing walks back in the room and leaves the door open. Over her shoulder she says: “You’re Anne’s kid, right? Tell her congratulations on getting the head nurse position. She deserves it.”

 

“Thanks,” he offers, still a little lost, closing the door behind him with his head down, because he didn’t mean to walk in on Luke having a conversation with his doctor, but it’s the evening and on his back is a backpack with chocolate bars and packs of chips, and he doesn’t know how to deal with that.

 

He finds Luke by the window, holding onto his crutches, giving Ashton his brightest smile. The sight makes Ashton smile immediately, how Luke looks more comfortable with a crutch on each side of him, a definitely oversized jumper, and black sweatpants. He’s barefoot, but he doesn’t seem to mind it much.

 

“Anne’s the head nurse now? Shit,” he raises his eyebrows, smile somehow managing to get even bigger and brighter. “I can’t wait to congratulate her.”

 

Ashton parts his lips to say something—he’s not sure what, exactly; “You look great”? “I’m glad you like Mum”? “Sorry for interrupting your conversation with Jing”?—but Jing walks to Luke slowly, pen tapping the flipchart in her hands. And she has this look on her face, that Ashton has learned to recognize over the years. No matter how good of an actor a doctor is, there are signs that give it away, how they feel about the patients and their chances.

 

And Jing’s face right now makes Ashton bite his lip so he doesn’t end up smiling his best smile to a doctor who isn’t even sure of his name.

 

“Are you going to go all the way to her ward by yourself or something?” Jing cocks an eyebrow, teasingly, and Luke lowers his head with a chuckle. “You just watch out so you don’t get yourself hurt, or worse: beat me in charity races. I’m not going to cut you some slack.”

 

Luke gives them a bit of an embarrassed smile, and then turns to Ashton, and with more ease than Ashton’s seen in him or many people really before, Luke puts a foot in front of the other, and with the help of the crutches, walks to him.

 

“Hi,” he says very quietly, inches away, and Ashton realizes he’d been staring.

 

He can’t bring himself to _not_ stare.

 

Luke’s inches on him show with the proximity, but he can’t think of anything that’d make him smile more than just that small little detail, so he smiles and smiles and smiles the hardest he can, because Luke’s so close to him and he’s standing and his legs are getting so much stronger and better, and he’s working so hard. He wants to tell him all of that, too, but right now he can’t bring himself to speak anything too complex, Luke standing so close, with those baby blue eyes, that Hollywood-white smile. It makes his own cheeks burn, which is odd.

 

He licks his lips, half-chuckling and half-trying to be serious.

 

“Hi,” he says back, but it sounds a little breathless.

 

They lock eyes, and the world honest-to-God stops.

 

Ashton feels his heart stop, at least, and if anyone else in the world breathes, he thinks it’s by mistake, because the moment carries too much anticipation, like a first kiss or first breath. He lets his eyes wander to Luke’s lips but very briefly, because he doesn’t want to miss any detail about how Luke looks like right now.

 

But Luke has different plans, and he’s okay with those, too.

 

Luke tilts his head to the side and down just a bit, just so he can touch Ashton’s lips with his own, and even if it’s just a gentle peck, Ashton still wraps his arms around Luke’s waist, still bites at Luke’s bottom lip, pulls just enough to make Luke smile against his mouth, and when they open their eyes again, their bodies are getting closer and they’re close close close, and the world goes from not moving at all to spinning madly.

 

Jing clears her throat, but when Ashton looks at her, feeling absolutely mortified to have been kissed with one of his mother’s co-workers in the room, the physician looks unfazed, staring at Luke’s chart, frowning slightly.

 

Luke turns to Jing as well, but because he doesn’t move away, Ashton keeps an arm around his waist.

 

“It says here you only have a couple more days of the antibiotics to go,” he says, still staring at the chart, and by the look in her eyes, Ashton wonders whether she even registered that there was a kiss at all. She looks absolutely immersed in whatever truth she’s finding in those paper sheets. “No fever recently either, is that it?”

 

“No, madam,” Luke says, all smugly, as if that’s his accomplishment alone.

 

It makes Ashton’s heart race, the shit-eating grin come back to his face as if it’d never left. He can see that Luke’s grinning, too, ridiculously proud.

 

Jing finally meets Luke’s eyes again, with a nod that seems to acknowledge something invisible to Ashton but tangible to them both. “Very well. If you need anything, I’m on the night shift tonight,” she smiles politely, but starts towards the door. When she’s about to pass them, she touches Luke’s shoulder, gives him a long look. “I meant what I said before, though. Be careful with the crutches, even if you feel confident enough to win me at the races already,” she winks.

 

“You know I will,” Luke says a little under his breath, making Jing shake her head and give him a real smile.

 

Jing gives Ashton a bit of an awkward wave, and then leaves them, clicking the door as softly as possible, and then they’re alone with each other. And Ashton’s heart is beating loud enough to wake the dead again.

 

Ashton takes a step back, one hand still on Luke’s waist, and raises his eyebrows as high as he can.

 

A bit timidly, Luke tells him: “So I’ve made some progress in physiotherapy.”

 

“To put it mildly, yeah,” Ashton laughs, then coming closer again and pecking his lips. And he means to speak again, but then Luke’s lips are just _there_ , and Luke’s putting an extra effort on resting his weight on the crutches under his armpits so he can still touch the side of Ashton’s body, too, and deepening the kiss becomes less of a possibility and more of a necessity. When he finally pulls away to breathe, smile still on his face, Luke’s eyes still closed and their foreheads touching, he adds: “And you’re responding to the antibiotics, didn’t think of mentioning that?”

 

His playful tone gets Luke to laugh, shrugging. “You only just got here.”

 

He smiles, and then he doesn’t anymore, hands taking the liberty of touching Luke’s tensed shoulders, his strong arms holding the crutches. His voice is a bit smaller when he asks: “Aren’t you tired?”

 

Luke shakes his head slowly, and then, with a cheeky smile: “Unless that’s your way to getting me to bed, then I guess I am.”

 

Ashton smiles, but takes him anyway.

 

It’s like—it’s—it’s one of these _things_.

 

It’s those songs they’ve made theirs playing in the radio that Luke’s brother still hasn’t come to get back, and probably won’t as long as Luke’s still in the hospital, either. It’s the crutches resting against the wall and Ashton massaging Luke’s shoulders and then kissing his neck. It’s Luke throwing his head just a bit, just enough to show some helplessness that makes Ashton feel like he’ll never again breathe properly. It’s the quietness that comes with the kisses and how that quietness breaks when their hands start going under the fabric of shirt and jumper. It’s the embarrassed little laugh when taking off said shirt and jumper, the self-consciousness of bare chests subsiding violently to the much more urgent feeling of skin against skin.

 

It’s kisses and touches and hands and skin and all the physical stuff, but it’s also the tiny noises that escapes Luke’s lips, and how true Ashton is to his word and kisses Luke all over, just because he feels that if he doesn’t, he’ll never forgive himself. It’s how when they look each other in the eye, through the music and the dim light, there’s still silence somehow, and at the same time, something echoing, going on and on forever.

 

#

 

“I’m just… I’m really glad all the bad things happened. Because then _this_ happened too, right?”

 

Laugh. “You’re glad the bad things happened?”

 

“I mean, obviously not. But you know what I mean.”

 

 

“Yeah. I know exactly what you mean.”

 

#

 

It’s only because Luke insists that Walker’s got his back and no one’s walking in unannounced in the room for the evening that Ashton agrees to be only in his boxers, which feels better than the skinnies away. Luke’s also in his underwear, but with Ashton’s shirt as well for whatever reason, and as he finishes the last of the chocolate, lying in bed with his long legs thrown over Ashton’s lap, he announces: “I don’t think I’ll be here for much longer.”

 

Ashton could tell that much, with how little medical attention he’s been having, and how a nurse was willing to guarantee no doctor or nurse comes check on him in the middle of the night, but still hearing it makes his heart skip a beat. One of his hands behind him to keep his balance and the other resting on Luke’s thigh, he raises his eyebrows.

 

“Yeah?”

 

Luke nods, sucks on his thumb as he stares at Ashton. And it should feel extremely sexual, especially _considering_ , but it just makes Ashton’s chest flutter and his mouth shape into a smile immediately.

 

“Yeah. Dr Jing said maybe a couple more weeks, just to finish with the antibiotics, make sure there’s nothing left of the infection in me, and then send me away. I’ll have to keep coming for the physiotherapy, of course, might be on crutches for the next few months, but I’ll go home.”

 

It raises some questions, like whether Luke’s parents will be really okay with Ashton coming over to visit, and whether they can do things like hold hands and kiss each other in front of them, and whether Ashton can take Luke to meet his friends any time soon, and what his parents will think of them—if they’ll like them, or they’ll think that Ashton isn’t so good for their son anyway, if he works in a video rental shop with a pink-haired girl, and hangs out with two high school seniors who skip class to go to the beach.

 

But that’s all ignored for now. Naturally.

 

Ashton leans down, the hand on Luke’s thigh sliding up his hips, his other elbow finding support next to Luke’s head on the pillow, and he kisses Luke, for a couple of seconds feeling like he may be doing the wrong thing, Luke frozen under him, but then Luke’s hands come to his hair, then another one to his naked back, pull him down so they’re touching more, and when Luke pulls away for just a second, he whispers, again: “I’m going home,” and smiles against Ashton’s mouth. It sounds like poetry, the type no one would be smart enough to write about in books, but even the coldest soul could recognize as beautiful.

 

“Yes, you are,” Ashton smirks, but keeps close, looking at him. Then: “What’s next, then, other than working on full recovery with the physiotherapy?”

 

Luke breathes in, seriousness spreading over his face, thumb touching Ashton’s face softly, trying to put behind his ear some of the untamed curls. His other hand slides a little further down his back, but he doesn’t break eye-contact. “Police questioning. Mum agreed to wait ‘til I get home, so I can do it from the comfort of our house, or something,” he rolls his eyes, as if he doesn’t really care, but at the same time, knows it matters. “I called Michael, too. He sounded a little awkward, but said you told him I’d call, that you’d given me his number… he seems like a nice guy,” he adds as an after-thought, and Ashton nods without thinking.

 

A nice enough guy that he’ll testify, too, help the police get to the man who was supposed to be there to help them feel safe, but shot Luke instead. But Ashton doesn’t say any of that. He says:

 

“I’ll be there with you, if you want.”

 

Luke gives him a small nod, a small smile, small circles being drawn with Luke’s thumb on his small back. The smallness of the details doesn’t draw Ashton’s attention away from how big everything feels, from their feelings to their decisions, and though he’s weak and goes for another kiss before Luke can reply, Luke still kisses him back, closes his eyes when Ashton rests his forehead against Luke’s, taking in the silence.

 

The CD has played to its end, finished maybe about an hour ago.

 

They’re not keeping track.

 

Ashton also takes in how Luke looks with his ripped Jimi Hendrix shirt, and how he smells to freedom, even though he spent the last couple of months locked in this hospital, from ICU to private room, but still. Ashton takes a deep breath, looks him in the eye.

 

Luke tells him, “I want you with me all the time, Ash.”

 

Ashton chuckles, because it sounds like such a big announcement, like such a repressed secret, a confession worth alerting all your friends and most distant family members for. And he also chuckles because he feels the exact same.

 

“And I’ll be,” he says, and kisses him again.

 

#

 

(fim.)

 


End file.
